


Wasteland Legeds: Missing in Action

by Alexeij



Series: Wasteland Legends [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Adventure, Drama, F/M, Gen, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2018-08-23 18:58:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8339020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexeij/pseuds/Alexeij
Summary: A Butcher's risen from the grave, searching for his past on a stolen road. The Traitor wanders in from the east, chasing and chased in turn. In the west, the Iron General readies the NCR for a final clash against the Legion. Relics of the Old World and paragons of the New plant their flags in the Mojave, a clash of wills that shall shape the future of civilization. [AU]





	1. 1) Ghost Town Showdown

**Book I - The Stolen Path**

**Chapter 1) Ghost Town Showdown**

His first memory was the pain. Pure, unrefined, searing  _pain_.

He shouted, convulsing body held by too many hands, until the anesthetics put his muscles to sleep, clenching his throat shut. Inside, though, he was awake, vigilant in the delirium, a brain trapped in a jar that refused the respite of sensory deprivation.

They took the silence as their signal to proceed, that all was right. Had his body answered to him, he'd have begged, pleaded for mercy.

As it was, he felt every inch of the steel that carved his head open.

* * *

The first instinct past the haze of the drugs was to punch the gentle, wizened, mustachioed face welcoming him back to the land of the living.

The murderous headache once more splitting his skull open was one of his body's ways of saying no.

"Hghmn?" he grunted eloquently.

"I said I think you're past the worst. All this time, I wasn't sure you'd pull through. God above, I can hardly believe you survived the operation as it was, and that was weeks ago."

His throbbing, addled brain cranked to life like an old watch, gears creaking as disused mechanisms tried to push them in motion past the layers of rust.

_'Weeks?'_

_'Who's we?'_

_'Where am I?'_

_'Where's my stuff?'_

He drew a complete blank.

His body compensated where his mind failed. Or at least, valiantly tried to. Leaden limbs stretched and pushed, kicking survival instinct in the balls once more. His head, a whole different sentient being, made its displeasure known, loudly and painfully so.

He flopped back on the hard mattress in the throes of agony, helped along by the man's hand pushing down on his shoulder.

"Easy there, John Doe. I'm not up to piece you back together when you crack your skull on the floor. People don't survive what you went through. They simply don't. Now rest, and don't waste our local share of miracles."

' _John Doe? 'S that me?'_

_'_ What happened to me _'_  was the question on his lips, but said lips wouldn't cooperate. He added them to his mental list of treacherous, mutinous body parts as the syringe slipped into his arm.

His last thought was how odd it was he couldn't feel the man's hand on his shoulder. Then darkness claimed him.

* * *

The face in the mirror was that of a complete stranger.

How could he tell if indeed Doc Mitchell - the wizened man usually at his bedside when he awoke - had done the good 'needlework' he claimed he had? How could the Doc expect him to tell the difference? Hadn't the past week proved his attempts at triggering a reaction wrong at every fucking turn?

How would he know what he looked like before some bastard played bullseye with his face point blank and missed if he couldn't even remember his name?

The scar was a long, jagged line along the left side of his head. The stitches had long come off, leaving it stubby to the touch where the scalpel had dug out the two bullets that robbed him of his identity. The Doc insisted most of it wasn't due to the trauma or his tools, however, but the product of some old wound, maybe inflicted by a large, serrated blade. Old or new, the pain was only slightly below atrocious when he traced its bare outline: the short dark hair that covered the rest of his head like a mat refused to grow over it.

' _That's gray hair. How many years have I lost already?'_

The lower half of his face mirrored the top, covered by weeks' worth of dark, bushy beard that parted only around the thin line of his mouth. In between, hollow brown eyes emerged from sunken orbits, and pale, sweaty skin.

"Well?" Doc Mitchell asked behind the frame of the hand-held mirror, voice betraying his eagerness.

"Nothing."

" _Nothing?_ " the doctor echoed, brows arching. "Nothing stirs? No recollection, no odd sensation? Not even a name, a date?"

He shrugged, gingerly lowering the mirror on the table between them. "Sorry to disappoint, Doc. Seems the only name I have is the one you gave me. Does that make you my father?"

Doc Mitchell's shoulders slumped, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His eyes traveled to the spotless framed photo hanging on the wall. A young girl in a Vault suit, less than sixteen, smiled back.

"It was a joke," the Doc said. "A pun to break the ice. You needn't have taken it to heart."

John shrugged. "Sounds suitable enough. Short. Easy to remember. Sure better than calling myself Fritz."

As he had discovered his body was wont to do, his right hand brushed absently along the length of the lean, shining compact rifle propped against his armchair. Etched in small letters between the trigger and the case surrounding the microfusion breeder, was the name 'Fritz'.

He had noticed it the first time the doctor placed the weapon in his lap, his eyes searching and finding it without fault.

What did it mean, the doctor had pried. Was it a name, an acronym, some sort of identification? A hint to his past,  _sure_ , but vague at best and useless without framing. He didn't know any more than the doctor did, but the initial, instinctual recognition was enough that he wouldn't allow it out of his sight for some time.

That two days later he had recollected what the rifle actually  _was_  and exactly how it worked was even better news for him.

' _Hyperbreeder. What a mouthful.'_

"Agreed," the Doc sighed. "I had hoped in, well, something. Kept this trump card for last as the wily old man I am," he chuckled, and slowly rose to his feet, popping his back.

"Me too," he admitted, "but you demean yourself, Doc. If you were less of a good man, you'd be suspicious that my bullet-induced amnesia wiped only personal history and left the rest mostly intact."

"No way to know that," the Doc said, pouring hot water into two mugs and mixing a large spoonful each of the mixed powder that made for a strong if bitter, tea. "Might be you remember one of two things, or five. Sadly, my Vault needed a surgeon more than it needed a neurologist. We might never know."

John muttered a thank you and sipped his tea. Silence settled, neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. It was just there, a recurring presence in the last few days. He found his thoughts quickly shying away from the distress that resided in the whole concept of 'not-knowing oneself', and thus not properly existing.  _'Damn books, that's what you get for snooping around.'_  He settled on what he  _did_  know instead and what he most recently remembered.

Once he was deemed out of the danger-zone and confined to the house rather than the bed, muscle memory was the first to reemerge, stirred by exercise after being dulled by weeks of lying in a coma. Habits, like fisting his left hand under his chin, or remembering to scratch himself with the right one. Reflexes, like bolting up and rolling away from his bed when some voice he didn't recognize approached his door.

That one he schooled himself to ignore for a while after the first attempt ended in torturous thrashing on the floor.

Then came knowledge, the practical kind, keyed to habit and practiced motions. Where to and where not to look for food, how to cook, and then less mundane skills like throwing his knife bullseye and reassembling the Doc's 10mm gun, or the custom model they found with him, the mag emptied.

A few days before, Trudy - the local bartender and de facto mayor - had appeared cradling a HAM radio sputtering static. A toolbox and five minutes later, it waxed 'Big Iron' without a hint of static, and he had secured Trudy's vote in ending his quarantine.

He might not remember who he was, but none would mistake him as a colonist or city dweller. Not a suit either, not with the blood-soaked clothes they found him in: sturdy and travel worthy, but hardly luxury.

Then, of course, there was the arm. Of metal rather than flesh, one wouldn't tell the difference without touching it, and at times not even he could. He spent hours comparing the two limbs, looking for the tiniest mark but came up with nothing. Something resembling skin covered the prosthesis, complete with body hair matching his general paleness. In fact, only the Doc and Sunny Smiles knew of it, the former from forced closeness while the latter only by chance.

The fact that neither spread the news baffled John at first until he noticed how the Doc always measured his words around him, how the man's shoulders tensed when they were in the same room.

That was how he learned of fear.

The front door creaking open brought him back to the present, but he behaved himself. No grabbing at weapons like he was deep in enemy territory this time.

How he knew what he would automatically behave like in enemy territory, he didn't have the foggiest.

To no avail, however. Cheyenne was still giving him the stink eye.

"Hey, Doc! I've got your steaks," Sunny Smiles greeted, true to her name and shaking her red hair to get rid of the outside dirt, not unlike her dog would do. She noticed Cheyenne's change of attitude and then him.

"Oh, John! You're awake and kicking." Her smile didn't falter, and he was grateful for that, but it was hard to keep the frown away from his face. He didn't need to get any closer to notice the heavy bags under her eyes, nor how waxy her skin looked despite long hours in the Mojave sun.

"Hello, Sunny. Fancy some tea?" He offered and chuckled when she scrunched her nose in distaste and glared, before punching him in the arm. The right one this time.

"Choke on it for me, please." She dropped her backpack on the dining table and fished out a bound package. "Fresh from the pen, Doc.  _Someone_  oughta be grateful for all your hard work."

The Doc thanked her and took the package to his fridge after a curious peer inside. "Why don't you lie down and tell us about tonight's watch? You look like you're about to fall over where you stand."

As if the coercive authority of his full doctor tone wasn't enough, a large yawn cut off Sunny's excuse. She looked longingly at the patched sofa the Doc had just vacated.

"Oh, why not? It's not like I'm going to crawl back to the trailer anytime soon."

She unslung her rifle and dropped face first onto the sofa, her sigh of relief muffled by the cushion in her face. Cheyenne cast a wary glance at John, then sprawled at her feet, turning its muzzle in his direction and closing its eyes.

"Nice try, girl," he teased. "Won't fool me this time."

"Don't provoke the dog, John," Sunny groaned, righting herself and sheepishly accepting a mug of tato juice from the Doc. As she sipped the fresh drink, she looked no older than the girl in the Doc's photo, despite her claims of being just over twenty.

"So, what's new in town?"

"Nothing - and I wouldn't call that a good thing. Chet's still an ass, there aren't enough people to keep watch and clear the critters from the pumps at the same time." She pointed an accusing finger at him, pursing her lips. "Cheyenne and I are overworked while you loaf around all day here at the Doc's. At least the Divide isn't blowing hell on us."

He frowned, not about to take offense. Sunny was like that. Honest. Blunt. Tired. "I figured between you, the Doc, and Trudy I'd be lending a hand by now. It's not like I'm shackled up to my bed or anything anyway. What's taking so long?"

"You, John," the Doc said. He winced and rubbed his temples against what looked like a building headache. John  _did_ sympathize.

"No offense, but Victor carries you in the one night gunfire keeps everyone on their toes, two bullets in your head and that high-tech rifle of yours. Next thing we know, the way between here and Jean is littered with half the Great Khans that passed through the day before. Many people think you're Brotherhood, and we've got enough trouble already without adding the NCR."

"So, Chet and the others fear that – the Khans, the NCR, take your pick - will retaliate on you for helping me?" He sighed and leaned back heavily. "Next, he'll blame me for the deathclaws and devil knows what at Quarry Junction."

"Don't let him hear that," Sunny scoffed. "He just as well might. Little greedy hypocrite," she muttered. "He was the first out there emptying pockets and the last doubling over a shovel. Should've dumped the bodies on his doorstep and watch the critters tear the shop down 'round him."

"Well now, I'm flattered Sunny. Not every day I see someone rise so strongly to my defense."

Sunny flipped him the bird. "I might well be the first for all you know." She froze after the last word left her lips, but he waved her off, pushing down the spike of annoyance he felt.

"Don't twist your panties into a knot over it. Being amnesiac has its ups too."

"Yeah. Don't want to hear that." She picked up her rifle, tugging half-heartedly at the bolt. "Just... Sorry. It's been a long night. Cobb shouted his lungs out the first half, and Cheyenne barked at critters for the rest of the night." The dog perked up at the mention, and Sunny fondly scratched her behind the ears. "Scared the living lights out of them too. Good girl. Now,  _of course_ , my Varmint's jammed. If there's a God out there, Pete will be at the bar and not too cranky to have a look at it."

He let her talk. Doc Mitchell was paging through a book, keeping only a half ear to the conversation, but he looked more than ready to doze into it. The old doctor was sturdy and athletic for his age, but he was also well past his seventies, and the excitement of the last few weeks wasn't what he was used to. The skin on his forehead was stretched tight, his cheeks sunken, and his hooded eyes spoke of sleepless nights and a heavy weight on his shoulders.

Not for the first time since he awoke, he felt a weight that had nothing to do with physical pain settling on his chest. It was an odd sensation, one he couldn't wrap his head around. These people – Doc Mitchell, Sunny, Trudy and the rest of Goodsprings' citizens – they brought him back from the brink of death, and asked for nothing in return but the time to decide if he was trustworthy.

The word,  _trust_ , sounded alien to his mind.

The amnesiac couldn't find it in himself to resent them, though, no matter how much the prolonged wait irked him or how his pockets were curiously empty of caps. What little he knew of his past-self suggested that he would have done the same at the very least. But probably worse.

He spied over the Doc's shoulder and noticed how empty the corner medicine cabinet looked.

Suddenly, the walls surrounding him seemed to bend and converge on him, robbing him of breath.

_'I need to get out of here.'_

"No need to ruffle Easy Pete. Let me have a look. Then it's high time I took a breath of fresh air."

* * *

The harsh desert sun blinded John for a full minute, leaving spots dancing in his vision. The air was dry, scorching, and the breeze carried dirt and dust rather than relief. The heat on his skin, the sweat already gathering on his forehead and neck weren't pleasant, but nor were they strange. He took comfort in that notion.

The wasteland welcomed him, harsh and unforgiving as it was. He preferred it ten times over the oppressive comforts of the Doc's house.

From the low hill, he enjoyed a clear view of Goodsprings. Two dozen houses in various states of disrepair clustered on each side of two roads of cracked asphalt. Brahmin lumbered in their corrals, the two-headed beasts oblivious and uncaring of everything around them. Small gardens dotted with hardy wasteland vegetables separated each building from the next.

Sunny poked him on the shoulder, interrupting his exploring spree. "It's not much, true, but it's home. Anyway, you're looking in the wrong direction. The local Strip is that way."

Following her pointed finger, he made out two wide, one-story buildings squatted at the foot of the tallest hill around, the slope dotted with the odd cactus tree. No signs creaked on their hinges in the morning breeze: tall, faded letters identified both the general store and the Prospector's Saloon, though the latter was made more personable by the mismatched collection of neon signs composing the last word.

"Victor found you atop the hill. See? If you squint, you can see the first tombstones and the broken fence."

He didn't need to squint his eyes, but he did so anyway. "I see a fair deal of bloatflies buzzing around too."

"Must be all the blood you lost and the fresh graves." She grimaced and scratched Cheyenne behind her doggy ears. "I'll add them to the list. At least it's not something bigger, or more  _poisonous_."

"Wildlife's quite lively?"

"You tell me. I'm the one on patrol every other day. Quarry Junction isn't that far off, you know? On a clear day, you can see radscorpions and cazadores aplenty from the hill, buzzing and fighting in the valley below. They tend to skirt Goodsprings though. Pete says it's because of all the dynamite they used to dig the mine."

"Maybe they'll pay Cobb a visit."

Sunny chuckled and started down the path, "Ah. Would that they do!"

He tipped the visor of his cowboy hat lower against the morning sun and followed. She led him down the other side of the hill, past a run-down Poseidon energy station that offered its shadow to a packed Brahmin.

"The trader, Ringo. Is he still holing up?"

"You're one to talk," she sniped back. "Yeah, poked his head out once two days ago. Jittery guy, but smart enough to avoid the general store and jingle his caps at Trudy."

"It's not like those Gangers would leave the town alone even if Chet handed them Ringo nicely wrapped up. The NCR correctional facility is what? Thirty miles south of here?"

"And how would you know?"

John tapped the map hanging from his belt he had worked on over the past few days with Doc Mitchell.

"Yeah, pretty much. I knew it was only a matter of time when news of the escape spread, but with I-15 closed off and McCarran one big nest of deathclaws away, they've become bold."

"Then why don't you leave? Doc told me this was a mining town years back, but the vein's long since dried up." Sunny shook her head, but he persisted. He might not remember owning a house or the sense of belonging somewhere, but logic and pragmatism were bulletproof, it seemed.

"You've nothing keeping you here but what? Affection and habit? Until whoever's in charge deals with the deathclaws, you can forget travelers to the Strip and caravans. Primm's a day away, and further south there's Nipton and the NCR Outpost."

"Looks like you've got it all figured out already," said Sunny, spinning on her heel and planting her palms on her hips. She was forced to look up at him, but her scowl was fierce. "Look, John, you seem like a nice guy, and I appreciate what you're trying to do. And yeah, you may be right on some of it. Point is, Goodsprings is home. Not habit and affection.  _Home._ You don't abandon home just like that." Her expression softened, and she brushed away a wild lock of red hair.

"To me, it's all I've known my whole life. My parents rest three stones down where Vic found you. Pete busted his back in the mine and making the houses livable when they first settled. Some of us can't just pack up and  _leave_  because some raider in blues got it in their heads they like our spot."

He let her words and the emotions on display on her face soak in. Pride. Fear. Anger. He knew the names, how to recognize those three. He tried to imagine himself in her situation, to  _sympathize_ , pitted against unfavorable odds to defend a place and people he held dear, but once more drew a blank. The most he got was a faint sense of distress as he pictured his conjured-up home burning around him, faceless people dead at his feet.

The mental projection spiraled out of control. Dark. Blood. Pain. A chuckle. Black and white. A glint. Two gunshots.

He felt Sunny shaking him; the tarmac scratched his palms and knees through the fabric of his trousers. His breath came in quick, ragged gasps. The world spun and the metallic smell of blood filled his nostrils. And Sunny shouting in his ear was not helping with his pounding headache. Not one bit.

"… back to the Doc's. You need to lie down!"

"No time to lie down," he grunted back but accepted Sunny's lift. She hauled him back onto his feet with surprising strength, making his head spin once more before the world returned to focus. He swiped his right hand across his face, frowning. No blood.

Sunny steadied him, bemused. Even Cheyenne spared him the doggie equivalent of a worried but unimpressed glance. He took a couple of tentative steps, found his legs could hold his weight and pushed himself off Sunny.

"I think... I think just remembered something important."

"Really? What's that?"

"Don't know for sure yet, but… it rings a bell with something Trudy said when I checked her radio. A man in a checkered suit, passed through a couple of days 'fore Victor found me in the graveyard?"

Sunny looked thoughtful for a moment, still searching him for any sign he might topple over any moment, then her eyes narrowed. "Sleek and greasy. Pretty city boy face. Two burly bodyguards. Same suit?"

"Wouldn't know about his pretty face, but that's the one." He exhaled. "Chet'll have to wait."

Cheyenne barked in approval. "What's with the sudden curiosity now? You know him? Is that it?"

He shook his head and touched the scar across his temple. Real and ghost pain mixed together. "I think he might be the one who shot me."

* * *

Trudy had precious little to add. No name, no precise direction, no association. Probably a Strip boy, but the stingy kind. Checkered suit. Ungodly amounts of hair lotion for the desert. A silver-plated zippo.

Chet 'knew' a lot of things, though. Worse for John, he had no qualms announcing them to the town at large from the patio of the Prospector. No early drink in his hands to dismiss his words as drunken ramblings either.

"I know you're one of those Brotherhood folks, 'John Doe'. Your kind is not welcome here, nor anywhere else in the Mojave." He spat a glob at his feet, his breath reeking of tobacco. "We wasted tons of meds on your sorry ass, asked for nothing back, and you can't bother to wait for the community to decide 'bout you. Here you are, prancing and strutting as you like. Well then, fuck off. To the road with you, and I might not inform the next NCR patrol your terrorist ass passed by."

John eyed the 9mm on Chet's belt and the similar weaponry carried by the townsfolk training the ugliest looks at him.

' _Three total. Small arms, speed on the draw. Elbow to throat, knife between ribs, duck behind motorcycle. Two shots at center mass.'_

Before he even realized he was assessing and weighing the rest of the people around him – Sunny and Trudy included – as possible threats and collateral damage, a boxy robot in blue rolled around the Prospector's corner closest to the graveyard hill, its prodigious bulk balancing with the precision of squeaking machinery over a single worn wheel.

The cartoonish cowboy on the screen flickered with static. "Skedaddle, folks! That's one mighty group of bad eggs comin' up the road, armed and primped. Will be on us 'fore we say  _Sarsparilla_ , right quick!"

John was the first to act as panic ensued. Chet disappeared inside his shop at the word 'armed'. People started running for their houses or checking their sidearms for ammo. An elderly couple hurried to the brahmin's pen as fast as their legs would carry them and soon were struggling with the lumbering beasts that refused the gift of freedom.

He marched up to the windblown Securitron. As with Fritz, the word was there when he searched for it, as were  _schematics_.

' _9mm_ _Gatlings. Pneumatic claws. Alloy casing. Those shoulder pads hold enough space for micro-missiles, or maybe additional ammo storage. Holy hell, it's a fuckin' war machine!'_

His heart was pumping faster with the first infusion of adrenaline; a strange eagerness coursed through his convalescent body, brushing away the lingering ailments. His mind cleared, the headache forgotten.

"Victor. Cut the bullshit. How far and how many?"

"Oh, howdy pardner?" The cowboy eyes were two black, fixed pixels, but John focused on the camera lenses just above the screen. He could swear he felt them whirr and zoom on him. One of the claws reached up to tap the rim of an imaginary hat in an all-too-human gesture. "A good dozen strong, the rascals are. They were leavin' Jean's when I rolled down the hill."

' _Map. Remember. That's some six miles away, give or take. At a run, half an hour at least, and they won't be fresh. One hour and something if walking fast. Ought to know the town would have lookouts. Plenty of time in either case.'_

John grabbed Sunny by one arm and Trudy by the other, careful with his grip. The younger woman was clutching her Varmint, her jaw set and teeth grinding. The elder one was shouting over the small crowd, pawing at people, trying to restore order and herd the stampede.

Both turned to regard him with eyes full of determination and a wince in Trudy's case. They'd wrestled down the worms of doubt and despair that took hold over the rest of Goodsprings. He took the Varmint from the redhead's hands and shot three times into the ground.

' _Now they ought to speed up if Cobb is half worth his threats.'_

People stopped, turned and watched, wide-eyed. He took them in: most past their forties, the elderly couple, a young family with their child. All that remained of a town slowly choked by the wasteland.

"Victor was exaggerating. There's only a dozen of them, some five miles away by now. They are underestimating you, think you will all cower and tremble like Chet there." He pushed the Varmint back into Sunny's hands, ignoring her stupefied expression, and unslung Fritz from his back. The hyperbreeder felt right in his hands.

"We'll capitalize on that, and they'll pay for it. Gather what weapons you have and hide on the roofs, behind the windows. We'll lure them into a kill zone, and that will be it."

"And who the hell are ye to order us about?"

"Wish I knew. Right now, the only one with a working head on his shoulders, it seems." He walked up to the man who had piped up, the burly arms of a farmer with a scorched face of someone who spent a lot of years in the desert sun and hands as big as plates. They were of the same height, but the farmer had at least two stones on the still recovering amnesiac. John glared at him right in the eye, then grabbed the larger man by his shirt with his left arm and pulled.

The farmer's feet left the ground.

"Do as I say, and live. Or wait for them to come and gut you in your home. Choice's yours."

Silence ensued. John let the man go with a shove, and turned to regard the small crowd. Only the elderly couple was absent, still struggling with their brahmins. A little up the hill, he could make out a silhouette standing in the door leading into the gas station.

"I'll say it again. Gather your weapons and what armor you have. Best sharpshooters on the Prospector's roof and the shop's. Stay low. Not you, Sunny," he said, shaking his head at the redhead. She scowled, but he was already speaking again, a plan quickly shaping up in his head.

"Pete, any dynamite you've left from the mine, bring it out. I'll need all you can get. Those who cannot fight, head to Doc Mitchell's house and stay there until it's over."

The white-bearded cowboy hesitated, suspicion darkening his leathery face, then nodded gruffly and trotted down the road, mumbling to himself. John turned to the Securitron. "Victor, break down the store's back door. Chet's storeroom should be stacked with the Khan's equipment and ammo. No reason to let those go to waste."

"Right away pardner! I like the way you work. It's gonna be one helluva shootout."

"Everyone stock up and get into position! Keep low and wait for the gangers to be out in the open. Trudy, you'll take the first shot. Make sure you have a clean line of fire on this road."

"I hope you know what you're doing," said Trudy, checking the slug into her shotgun, "or I don't think we'll see sundown."

John nodded. She left, narrowing her eyes at the Securitron tearing down the sturdy wooden door with offending ease. John smiled as enraged and then fearful shouts came from inside, letting some of the eagerness and excitement he felt slip through the hard façade he'd kept up so far to deal with the unruly crowd.

Was this blood-thirstiness? John didn't know, but he guessed it couldn't be only that. It didn't feel wrong, like the Doc's personality tests heavily hinted at. The only word he could point his mental finger to was  _natural_ , like slipping an old glove on and finding it still fit you perfectly.

Question was, how old was the glove? For all he knew, the dead Great Khans on the road to Goodsprings were probably his handiwork.

' _Who the fuck was I before the checkered suit shot me?'_

The answer was another blank draw, then a very annoyed Sunny Smiles commandeered his attention, her trademark expression nowhere to be seen.

"What're you keeping me around for? My place is on that roof with the others."

He looked at her. She was vibrating with tension and expectation, adrenaline surging already. At her side, Cheyenne growled ominously, sensing the tension in the air.

John felt his grin widen when he spotted Pete over her shoulder, bundles of dynamite in his arms. Sunny arched an eyebrow at him, and he pointed at the road Joe Cobb and his Powder Gangers would come up from in less than twenty minutes at the earliest.

"Know a good spot for an ambush?"

* * *

John flattened on his belly atop the outcrop and listened to the band of Powder Gangers passing not thirty meters away from him, trading jokes but raising far less of a ruckus than he'd have expected after their nightly rounds of threats and bellowing.

Silently, he chided himself for his hubris. His amnesia only felt like half of an excuse.

' _These convicts blew up half a prison and the whole garrison to escape. An NCR garrison. Soldiers. Trained soldiers at that.'_

So,  _of course_ , where Sunny had told him to expect the usual miscellanea of pilfered gear raiders usually possessed – sidearms, baseball bats, the odd trail shotgun or hunting rifle – they were treated with fucking military equipment.

The binoculars had revealed a dreadful loadout and a steep decrease in their odds. At least half the Gangers carried M16A1 service rifles, the kind he somehow knew was standard fare for NCR troopers. Then there were SMGs, both 9mm and 10mm. Joe Cobb himself holstered a .44 Magnum Revolver at his hip. That one could punch through the walls of the saloon by itself and ruin whoever hid behind it.

And of course, dynamite.  _Everyone_ carried dynamite sticks in the loops of their belts.

' _Thank God at least they don't seem too eager to wear their jailor's armor.'_ He had spotted only two of the bulletproof Kevlar vests with 'NCRCF' stenciled on the chest, and only one intrepid soul wore the top half of a painted NCR trooper uniform under the sweltering sun.

Most of the information spontaneously popped up after a brief glance, detailed and comprising of ammo, rate of fire and possible variants. Sunny wasn't eager to leave all the action to him but agreed after a muttered, tense exchange to go back with Cheyenne and warn the defenders of the unexpected turn of events. Which, he felt with an utter certainty he couldn't explain completely, he  _should_ have predicted!

John pressed his cheek against the ground and focused on the steps a little ways ahead, holding his breath as the last one passed by his position. His left arm held the five sticks Pete spared him, wrapped together with a roll of industrial tape he found in Chet's storeroom. The custom 10mm he gripped in the other hand.

' _Now.'_ He lifted himself into a crouch and at the same time lobbed the dynamite bundle in a short arch. It struck the third to last Ganger in the shoulder and the man let out a small cry of surprise that had the rest reach for their weapons.

The bundle hit the ground and the Gangers turned around. John cocked the hammer and lined the shot through the reflex sight.

It detonated before he could pull the trigger. The sound deafened him a split second ahead of the shockwave that rammed into his chest, sending him staggering back onto his ass. Two smaller explosions followed the first as some of the sticks the Gangers carried destabilized, caught in a chain reaction. Dirt and gravel battered his face and a dust cloud rose around and over the shouting gangers.

John barely noticed the crater as he stumbled on his feet and took off at a run, sliding down the outcrop and up another slope, coasting up the road towards Goodsprings. He passed the stripped skeletons of houses and only stopped to catch his breath at the edge of town.

That was the crucial part: too close, and he'd be a sitting duck. Too far, they wouldn't spot him and give chase.

He forced his legs into another sprint, holstering the 10mm and grabbing at Fritz hanging from his shoulder by a leather strap. Nausea threatened to double him over again but John ignored his body's complaints and pushed harder, grateful for every second the dynamite earned him to reach the next station.

The first bullets whizzed past him as he ducked under the old water tower, sliding behind one of the metal pillars. Five gangers were advancing up the road, blood splattered on their faces or seeping from wounds where gravel on the road turned into shrapnel. Behind them, John could make out other figures staggering out of the fading dust cloud.

' _Damn. Still too many.'_

Fritz spewed one laser beam after the other. The first went wide as the target ducked behind a rock. A split-second later, the bold convict donning the trooper armor let out a short cry and doubled over, hands on the blackened scorch mark on his belly. John rolled behind another pillar and blasted a third one in the chest when he rose from cover. John threw another stick, but the dynamite exploded a few seconds too early, leaving him blinking against the screech in his ears.

' _Damn short fuses.'_

Submachinegun fire peppered his position, rattling the pillar. John hissed as lead grazed his arm and then his shin, then bolted away as the shooter stopped to reload. He turned sharply to the left around the nearest corner and sent two more blasts in the gangers' general direction.

His left hand searched the small heap of rubbish at his feet and closed around a shortened fuse. He grinned, sending a silent thank you to Easy Pete and another prayer that this one wouldn't blow early in his face.

The Gangers advanced and John ducked low as shots punched through the old wood, close enough to kiss his brow. Pete's spare zippo produced a flame on the second try, and John counted up to three before he tossed the bundle at the foot of the water tower and dashed in the opposite direction, vaulting over a fence and mercilessly curb-stomping through someone's garden.

The explosion rattled his teeth and shredded an entire section of the house, but the screeching of rent metal and the cries of alarm were music to his ears. The water tower buckled on its last remaining pillar and came crashing down. The ground rumbled under his feet on impact.

John hoped the wet squelch he heard in the cacophony wasn't just a product of his imagination. He circled around the next house and ran halfway back to the main road, his sole company for a long, blissful moment the thunderous beating of his heart and the burning ache in his legs.

Then curses, shouts, and coughing filled his ears.

"Look alive, ya slugs! I want that bastard's head! That fucker is toyin' with us: the worms lacked the balls to face us and called in some hired gun!"

"Cobb-"

"Shut yer trap, Goldstein! We move up to the saloon and rain lead on everythin' that moves. I want this fuckin' shit-stain of a town razed by nightfall! 'round this scrap, now!"

Feet crunched splintered asphalt and more voices cursed. John bolted for the back of the adjacent house, rounded the corner and crouched, leveling Fritz at the Powder Gangers' path, muzzle poking out between a broken section of fence.

They had other plans. John cursed as dynamite sticks sailed high in every direction, long fuses burning, and was already scrambling away when one landed not two meters away from where he lay in ambush. Half a dozen isolated explosions cracked the air and ripped houses apart, turning the small alleys between the abodes into a hail of shrapnel.

John covered his face with his left arm and threw himself through the nearest window as the stick behind him detonated. He landed into an affront to all rolls and the edge of a table drove the breath from his chest before crashing under his weight. He felt at least two ribs crack and managed only a gulp of smoky air that sent him into a coughing fit before he struggled to his feet and barged through the nearest door deeper into the house, Fritz slapping against his side.

He crashed through the nearest window as the roof above his head shattered under another explosion. Prone on the ground, glass digging into his forearms, the world diminished to indistinctive ringing and the pounding pain in his head. The ground against his cheek rumbled and grumbled time and again, threatening to crack and swallow him whole until he was freezing in Cocytus.

' _Must have cracked my head, again, to start thinking in literary terms.'_

The numbness subsided, and John tasted dirt and blood in his mouth. Levering on his left arm, he lifted on his knees and retched violently, splashing his breeches with bile and what remained of his breakfast. His sense of smell returned next, and he wished it had not. Blearily, he craned his neck to the side and froze.

Smoke rose from the odd fire, but through the broken shell of the house the gangers demolished on him, he had a clear view on the main avenue.

The Prospector's façade had simply ceased to exist.

Clarity returned with the impetus of a battering ram, worse than any headache. With it came the gunfight, the loud bark of service rifles drowned by the alternate boom of shotguns. A silhouette stumbled and fell from the store's roof, but a billow of smoke hid it from sight before he could focus.

Adrenaline rushed through his veins by the bucketload. He was on his feet, deaf to the pain in his chest and legs. He ran, fingers flipping a small switch on the side of his rifle. Fritz hummed to life in his hands in response. Another explosion drowned the gunfire, beating on his eardrums, and then he was charging into the main avenue.

John jumped over the corpse of a ganger and leveled the energy rifle at the nearest figure in convict blues. There was no recoil, barely any aim. With a hiss, three laser beams burned through the Ganger's flesh, melting cloth, muscle, and bone together, fusing his hand to the grip of his rifle.

Four more convicts crouched behind the bulk of rusted cars and boulders in a rough semicircle around Goodsprings' defenders. Dynamite had wrecked both buildings, caving the saloon's roof in, and two bodies were sprawled on the street. Then the two closest Gangers noticed him and the flash of laser fire, but he was already upon the first by the time their rifles were trained on him.

He bashed the muzzle pointed at his chest aside with Fritz and pummeled the Ganger's face with his left fist. It caved in with barely any resistance, bone giving way to cybernetic strength, and the neck snapped back with a loud crack. A wordless cry of alarm was followed by automatic fire, but John dropped with the body and pulled the trigger one-handed through the red mist as bullets tore through the corpse. Once. Twice. The hyperbreeder hissed.

The convict disintegrated into smoldering ashes. Behind him, one of the remaining duo stared slack-jawed before survival instinct kicked in and he started running backward, spraying the whole area with lead from his SMG. John rolled away behind the very rusted car the dead gangers used as cover, but his eyes never left the other man now beating a hasty retreat.

Joe Cobb's flight was cut short by a bullet through the thigh before he could take ten steps. The last convict hesitated and paid for it: the man screamed and fell on his knees as a single laser beam burned through his chest. Eyes glazed over, he flopped forward with a wet thud.

"John? Oh fuck, you're alive."

Sunny Smiles leaned against the only chunk of the Prospector's façade still standing. Her leather armor was torn and smudged in blood and soot like the rest of her, even the bandage wrapped hastily around her head. He didn't answer, nor paid any attention to how nobody crawled out of the general store but felt the collective weight of her bloodshot eyes as he stalked up to Joe Cobb.

The ganger lieutenant cried in pain and dropped the revolver as John's bullet pierced his hand. He clutched it to his chest and tried to crawl away, mouth working a mile a minute as blood pooled under him.

"Ya don't know who yer fuckin' with, cowboy. Gangers rule this slice of the Mojave! No Legion, no goddamned NCR, only the Powder Gangers! Ye shoot me and every fuckin' gun this side of the desert will be out for yer head, ya hear me you fuckin' piece of –"

The threats dissolved into yowls as John's next two shots shattered his kneecaps. The 10mm was a wild animal in his hands, bucking like Fritz never did, but shooting was not enough. Not  _nearly_ enough. John kicked away Cobb's whole hand then stomped on it; he heard the bones and sinews snap under the sole of his boot. His knife flashed out, nailing the other hand into the ground as if crucified, then he was straddling Cobb, punching away at the smug face now distorted in pain with his right hand.

A minute later he was panting over Cobb's twitching body, his hand throbbing, but he felt the anger ebb away. Not disappear, simply lose its edge and retreat under the surface, festering and boiling. Thoughts of checkered suit flowed unbiddenly.

' _You're up next. Soon, very soon_ _.'_

* * *

Squashing bloatflies and digging graves was nothing short of torture, but John welcomed the menial, manual work of attacking the hard-packed ground with a shovel. Half a stimpak mended his ribs, the other half his hand. Bandages took care of the scrapes and cuts. He flat-out refused the med-x though.

"This has nothing on your scalpel, Doc."

The digging took him the best part of the afternoon. At sunset, Doc Mitchell gathered the survivors to officiate the rites.

Trudy was laid to rest beside her parents and her stillborn son. The damage of the explosion and subsequent cave-in had disfigured the mayor beyond recognition; John helped Sunny wrap her into some spare sheets before they hauled the body up the hill.

Easy Pete had long since reserved a place beside his wife and John dug within the outline of white stones. Sunny nailed his cowboy hat and handkerchief to the rough cross they made from the rubble in the saloon. The two Brahmin elders spoke briefly of him, more concerned with the little girl between them, staring at the bundles that were her parents' bodies with blank-eyed emptiness.

Four more graves he dug, but Doc Mitchell only spoke the words once, thrusting their souls in God's care. A few words were spared even on Chet, who everyone agreed was a greedy, two-faced son of a whore, but nonetheless part of the small world that had been Goodsprings.

John found Sunny much later, nursing a pilfered bottle of moonshine as she stared at a nameless tomb marked only by the two crossed, broken halves of her Varmint rifle driven deep into the freshly moved earth. He sat beside her and accepted the bottle when she offered it without a word, then passed it back. The moonshine burned harshly in his mouth, covering the bile and blood, and John welcomed the distraction for a moment.

"Thank you, John," she said, words only slightly slurred. "For digging it."

"It was the least I could do for Cheyenne. She was a good dog."

"The best," she agreed, nodding at the metal cross. "You two didn't hit it off with the right foot, but she'd have won you over soon enough."

"Mh, no doubt. I'm a sucker for puppy eyes."

"Cheyenne didn't do  _puppy eyes_!" Sunny scoffed indignantly. "She barked and pawed at you, or tore out a gecko's throat when she was having a bad day. Bossy girl."

The silence stretched between them as the night descended. In the distance, the glow of neon on New Vegas's skyline struck out like a sore eye under the canopy of stars.

' _Where do Securitrons go?'_

"How's Ringo?" Sunny asked, stretching her legs. The empty bottle clinked against a rock and rolled away.

"Doc's positive he'll live. The bullet passed through without nicking the bone. Blood loss's the main issue there." He produced a small flask of whiskey and took a long swig, pressing it into her outstretched hand a moment later. "Mentally, he's a wreck: thinks everything happened because of him."

"You didn't tell him otherwise? Nip it in the bud? Bash him in the head, blunt as you are?"

"Thanks. And yes, I tried, minus the bashing. I don't think I made a headway, though. He kept promising he'd 'set things right' once back at the Crimson Caravan. "

"Please," she scoffed again. "As if their kind could do shit when guns are out blazing. Talk caps and rob you blind: that's all they're good for. Like so many Chets, they think money can solve everything then bang, they're fertilizer. I wonder if their personal hell is some kind of hippie commune where riches are banned or something."

"I wonder if there's a hell out there I can throw Victor in. Shooting its cowboy face to pieces doesn't seem enough."

Sunny nodded. She had barely washed the dirt and blood from her face and hands after they finished stacking the ganger's bodies into the general store cellar, yet thin, dried up lines cut through her smudged cheeks. John hadn't seen her cry, but he also knew she'd stayed an awfully long time at the nearest pump for the results she got.

Her eyes weren't free of tears now. They shone in the moonlight and reflected the same anger John felt; if not for it the raw, oppressive weight on his chest trying to suffocate him would succeed.

"If there isn't, I'll make one for the bastard. Custom built." She hugged her knees, squeezing until her knuckles turned bone white, yet failed to stop the tremble in her shoulders. "Trudy, Pete and the others would still be alive if it didn't roll away at first sign of trouble. Tin can packs a hell of a punch. Would have mowed Cobb and his cronies down and instead left us all to die. It shot Pete when he tried to stop it, goddamn it!"

Sunny's curse echoed in the night and John placed his right hand on her shoulder. Not to calm her - he discovered soon after awaking that he disliked hypocrites – but to show support, union of intent.  _Sympathy_.

' _List of bastards that ought to die horribly just got a bit longer.'_

Later, she dumped a few buckets of water over her head. Then they searched for a deserted house and climbed into bed. Together.

* * *

_AN:_ _I've stretched some distances and shortened others as I saw fit. Also, yeah, John Doe has no Pip-Boy. It was no mistake._

_Fallout belongs to Bethesda, blah blah blah, if I had the money I'd totally buy the rights, yadda yadda, come and get me you lousy Feds!_


	2. 2) That Night In Budget Vegas

**Chapter 2: That Night in Budget Vegas**

The caravan headed south shortly after dawn.

Ringo's brahmin and one of the stubborn ones in the corral were packed full of supplies and anything of use or value they retrieved from the general store, the Prospector, and from the dead Gangers too. Sunny called dibs on Cobb's revolver and hung it from her belt opposite to Easy Pete's.

By the time they got moving, everyone carried a rifle or submachine gun, even the elderly couple, and more were heaped upon the rear brahmin.

"This is not goodbye, Martha," Doc Mitchell whispered. The breeze carried the words to John; the doctor looked all his years and more as he cast one long look at the town, lingering on the top of the hill, then at the faded photograph in his hand. When they met each other's gaze, Doc Mitchell frowned, then nodded slowly and joined the caravan, sliding beside the hobbling Ringo and the blank-faced orphan he was distracting with a story.

John brought up the rear while Sunny, more familiar with the road, lead, looking everywhere but at the empty spot at her side. He tried not to put too much weight on the past night's gymnastics. After all, he ought to have laid with at least one woman in the past thirty-and-some years now wiped clean from his mind.

It had been an awkward first few minutes, though. His body was eager enough, but his mind kept reeling, pulling at strings with nothing attached. In the end, he simply stopped thinking and let himself go.

First time or not, he  _had_  been Sunny's first, but past the initial unease and confusion there had been little in the way of sweet words, or blushing confessions in the morning.

They coupled, yes. Several times at that. To forget and celebrate life, to drain the frustration, the anger and grief – in her case – the day's events left them with, in an effort to stop going mad over what happened until time intervened and the wounds would start to scab over.

It wasn't gentle, and he could feel the scratches her broken nails left on his back chafing under his shirt and the brand-new leather armor, courtesy of the late Chet. In some ways, he had given up to baser, more animalistic instincts, but John had never felt more human since he woke up a week prior.

They stopped at the first well to refill their canteens and water the pack brahmins. Sunny said nothing, picked up her new rifle and meandered up a nearby path, soon disappearing from view. After a few minutes, the echo of gunshots carried to the caravan, intermixed by screeching and bestial hissing.

John traded a look with Doc Mitchell, Ringo, and Sean, the elderly brahmin breeder. The man's wife soothed the sobbing, orphaned girl whose name he had yet to learn.

He quickly averted his gaze and stared stiffly ahead when the pressure in his chest awoke with a vengeance.

"Dynamite knocked a few screws loose in her head," Sean declared, keeping his rifle at the ready. "That ruckus'll draw every gecko for miles." John glared at him, but the old man remained completely unapologetic, beady eyes checking their surrounding for threats.

"Didn't see any yesterday, and this is nothing in comparison."

"Yesterday, there's dynamite flyin'," the old man bit out. "Geckos ain't no bleedin' deathclaws, boy. Still belong to this half of creatures that recognize trouble and don't dive head-first into it. I think the girl might've jumped that fence."

John didn't know what to answer to that and settled into an uneasy vigil atop a small rise. Half an hour later, Sunny plodded into view, a duffel bag oozing blood on one shoulder.

"Hunted lunch and dinner," she announced as a way of greeting, showing her bloody prize of chunks and slices of dripping gecko meat. "Left the hide behind. No one'll buy it in Primm, the hills behind the town are crawling with the critters. Got no time to work it either."

"You did well Sunny," Doc Mitchell said slowly as John moved to help her secure the duffel onto a brahmin. The beasts huffed at the scent of fresh blood but didn't start away. "We'd better save our food as long as possible. You never know what might happen out here."

"You alright?" John asked her as he checked the strap securing the duffel. "You could have warned me before you went off on your own."

"I don't need a sitter for geckos, John. We've been hunting the beasts for years now, me and…" She choked on the name, then steeled herself. The fakest smile John ever saw – that is, the first – split her face, her muscles stiff with the effort. "Besides, it was a private farewell party. On an invite basis, you know." Her eyes remained hard and hollow.

The day saw no further accidents, only young geckos and wild dogs in the distance; they gave the caravan a wide berth at the first warning shot. They advanced at a steady if slow pace, to allow for Ringo's wounds and the elderly to keep up.

Twice, they stopped by the road to roast some of the meat over a fire and rest. Jean Sky Diving was vacant but for the traces of the late residents, not a soul around. So was the next camp they passed by the road a few hours later.

"Gangers," John said, kicking away an empty crate labeled with the ominous 'TNT'. "They vacated a while ago. Three, four days at most by the looks of it."

"Yep." Sunny rose from her crouch at the side of the road, glaring at the desert. "I think they went south, but there's no way to track them on the tarmac."

"No need either," said Doc Mitchell. "Our priority is Primm. Let's just hope we don't meet them later."

The sun climbed higher, trailing their progress and beating a tattoo on the back of his neck. The cowboy hat, while snug and shadowing his face, itched like crazy against his scar. John subdued the urge to tear it off and submitted to the incessant torment, reasoning that the full glare of the sun would be a worse trade-off.

Primm's rollercoaster soon stood out against the low rises of this stretch of the Mojave, inching closer and closer as midmorning progressed into early afternoon. At some point after lunch, Ringo decided to strike up a conversation to break the monotony of travel if nothing else.

John soon decided he preferred chatterbox Ringo over mopey Ringo. He was a well of information.

"That range to the west is the Spring Mountains. Primm's right at its feet. It's the one natural barrier against the elements all the way down to I-15 intersection and the Mojave Outpost. There's only one pass through, and the storms blowing from the Divide are a pain in the ass already with that single gap. Last time I passed through the NCR Outpost, there was talk of sending soldiers north to deal with the Powder Gangers. The officer in charge, this fellow Jackson, he insisted we bunk down and let the troops clear the road, but O'Connel argued we had to pull through."

Ringo shook his head, emotion coloring his voice. "Stubborn brahmin. Said McLafferty wouldn't stand for another delay in the delivery. He just feared she'd demote him back to stable hand. For all the good it did him, we could have just left all the food and meds we carried wrapped up at the Gangers' doorstep and took McLafferty's lashing. Maybe they wouldn't all be rotting in the desert right now. Or maybe I'd be deathclaw dung at Quarry Junction."

' _My hat they ended up feeding some of the wildlife. Some of those giant radscorpions Sunny kept talking about the other day, perhaps.'_

The sun was low on the horizon as the caravan left the main road, now coasting the low western hills, for a narrower one heading farther to the west that would take them by the only access through Primm's walled perimeter. John kept both eyes out and a finger on the trigger, scanning the rocky slopes for signs of ambush or game. It wasn't a hundred paces before Sunny called the halt.

"I don't like it," she growled as he accepted a pair of binoculars she offered, "I don't like it one bit."

Ringo had told him that the Interstate-15 ran under Primm more than through it. It puzzled him at first, but now John could well see why: most of the town's still-standing buildings, rollercoaster included, stood on a level with the rest of the desert around them, surrounded by a long perimeter wall of concrete blocks and tall, iron spikes.

John guessed that at some point in the past before the bombs fell, part of the road's foundation must have caved in. Rather than trying to dig up half the town and reinforce the foundations, the town's original inhabitants built a concrete overpass spanning the gap to link the two halves of the town. John decided he wanted to be nowhere around it if - when - a thunderstorm ever found its way to the Mojave.

It was at the overpass that Sunny's finger pointed. Looking through the binoculars, John felt his lips pinch together then curl into a snarl.

"NCR soldiers on one side, Gangers on the other. Sandbags, barricades, lots of guns up there, the whole nine yards. My caps are on frag mines too."

"What's goin' on now? Why're we stoppin'?" piped up Sean behind them.

"Primm's about to turn into a bloodbath, that's why," he shot back. "There's a roadblock on the other side as well. Greens and browns, not blues. Thank God for little mercies."

"Seems we got company, though," Sunny drawled. "They look like some of your little mercies."

He handed her the binoculars and followed her pointing finger. His eyes landed on a single NCR trooper darting into a guard shack made of foil and metal scraps. On his tail, a full squad of five took position behind makeshift barricades, rifles unashamedly aimed at the caravan. Another soldier, this one wearing a green cap, came to a halt behind the first line of riflemen.

"I'm Lieutenant Hayes of the New California Republic Army, 5th battalion, 1st company! Lower your weapons and state your business! I warn you: my men won't hesitate to fire!"

* * *

"Military operations are classified information, Miss Smiles. Trigger-happy civilians should not butt into NCR business."

They stood in the lieutenant's tent on the west bank of Primm, Hayes, Sunny, and himself.  _'The ruined, dilapidated half of the town. Lucky us.'_

After they identified themselves, submitted to a search and gave a quick, cursory summary of the past two day's events, the Goodsprings caravan was escorted to a small square tucked out of sight between two large and completely wrecked buildings; good enough to stave off the wind, but useless against the chill of the desert nightl.

"Trigger-happy?" Sunny repeated, deliberately slow. "Look outside, you twit.  _We_ are what's left of Goodsprings after  _your_ convicts went trigger-happy on  _us_. And now we find you and your dozen soldiers sitting on your thumbs instead of putting a cap on this whole mess you caused in the first place."

"As I said, Miss Smiles, I can't divulge anything related to military operations." Lt. Hayes adjusted his cap and straightened from the map he was pouring over. "And while you have my sympathy, I recall Goodsprings refused NCR assistance when offered. I was there when your mayor gave us the boot."

"We refused  _martial law_ ," Sunny spat back, then stalked out of the tent, muttering, "this is a waste of time."

Hayes watched the flap flutter still, then turned to John. "Rein your people in, Mr. Doe," he said blankly. "I won't have civilians interfering and give the convicts cause to hang any more hostages."

"I'm not their leader," John said, grimacing at the thought of the two rotting bodies dangling in the middle of the street on the other side of Primm. Their executioners had conveniently strung them to the only working streetlights visible from the NCR's side of the town, and Primm was apparently blessed with working electricity. The stench carried all the way to their camp with every slightest waft of wind. "But they saved my life when they had no reason to but human decency, and it's a debt I've yet to repay."

"I'm afraid I can't help you. I have my orders..."

"… and no supplies to share, I heard your men talk. You're already down to hunting geckos, while Primm was stocked up on provisions and meds." John leaned on the metal table standing between them. "You're running out of time."

Hayes sighed and deflated a little. The black bags under his eyes and the gaunt cheeks reminded him of Sunny two mornings before, overtaxed with night watch and ranger duty, only worse. He supposed he didn't look much better himself right now. He didn't feel too tired though, not after he guzzled down a couple of Nuka Colas.

' _God knows it's the turbo keeping Sunny awake for three days straight. What's_ _he_ _running on? Duty? Pride?'_

"Thank you for spelling it in such clear terms, Mr. Doe." He grimaced, staring at the map and drumming a tune on the metal table separating them. John waited. The drumming stopped.

"Truth is, we  _could_  storm the place. The convicts have better equipment than we expected and a fortified position, but lack discipline. They're a glorified rabble, as this Cobb's attempt at Goodsprings highlighted once more."

"They pretty much  _razed_ Goodsprings."

"A dozen heavily armed men, former raiders and slavers all, were taken out by less their number in farmers, that girl, and you. No offense, but you should see what I'm talking about."

"Then why don't you do it?" John insisted, pointing at the map. "Rappel up with the cover of night. Take out the sentinels, secure the hostages in the town and mop up."

"I have soldiers with me. Conscripts and volunteers, not Rangers or Iron Guardsmen." Yet John saw the gears turning behind Hayes' eyes. The next words were slow to leave his mouth. "There's more than that. But I can't disclose anything else."

Something clicked.  _'What was it that Ringo said… oh, fuck it_.'

"You don't need to. How long before you move for the prison?"

Hayes' eyes widened a fraction, then he frowned. "Where did you hear that?"

"Word travels," John shrugged, then jabbed a finger at the map, "and it's logical, in its own way. Primm is a good staging area and fallback position should things go south. Fortified. The facility is only some fifteen miles north and with I-15 closed up north, you can move in only from the south."

"State your point."

John glowered at him. "Insurance. You were sent here to prepare the stage: offer Primm protection, much like you did with Goodsprings. But I don't think your superiors would let some civilians' pride throw a wrench into their plans, hence the twelve soldiers for what? Thirty, forty civilians? Primm was to fold into the NCR, willing or not. Only, Powder Gangers beat you to it."

Hayes didn't deny a word. John unslung his backpack and rummaged inside it. The object he slammed onto the table was long and rectangular and quite beyond repair, fried circuitry poking out the burned casing. The antenna at the top was missing.

"Cobb's gang had one of these. Whoever's in charge over there must have one too. Tuned to your frequencies, if they have half a brain. Your soldiers so much as get within spitting distance of the prison, or the convicts catch wind of anything underhanded, Primm turns into a slaughterhouse. But you already know that."

"I have my orders, Mr. Doe," Hayes repeated stiffly, putting no effort in disguising the dislike and frustration in his voice. "They tore to pieces the last bounty hunter I sent in there, then gave us a last warning of sorts. A note nailed to Deckard's head. Any more trespassing and they start playing bullseye with the hostages."

"They'll all be dead anyway soon enough if we do nothing. I say they deserve a chance, slim as it is. And the people of Goodsprings don't have anywhere else to go. Their supplies won't last forever."

Hayes leveled a searching look at him. "Are you volunteering? Why? I've no compensation to offer you."

' _Why indeed?'_  John crossed his arms. "I've got a bone or two left to pick with those bastards from yesterday, Lieutenant, and a debt to repay. Also, I need information on a private matter I can find only in Primm. That good enough for you?"

Hayes nodded, then moved to the exit. "It will have to do. Come then. There's someone in camp who'll be interested in hearing what you have to say."

* * *

They found her sitting with the Goodsprings refugees and a few soldiers around a campfire, chatting with Ringo. Sunny was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Doc Mitchell.

At first, John spotted the laser rifle within easy reach, the sturdy combat armor hued black and brown covering her broad back and a ponytail of blonde hair. A recon helmet hung from her ammo belt beside a sheathed knife as long as his forearm and a scratched med-kit.

She rose smoothly to meet them before Hayes and he entered the circle of light. Strong blue eyes narrowed at Hayes from a hard, striking face, suntanned and streaked with dirt. Then they settled on John, darted briefly to Fritz on his left shoulder and he saw a spark of something he couldn't identify in her eyes.

"Lieutenant Hayes, sir," she greeted. John arched an eyebrow at her accent but had no clue as to where it placed her in the big, wide wasteland.

"Miss. Mr. Doe here is of the same mind as you regarding Primm and the convicts. Your offer still stands?"

The woman chuckled. "Finally, someone with an ounce of good sense in their head." She strode up to him, right hand shooting out. John shook it, and she almost crushed it in a steel-like vise.

"Doe? As in, John Doe?" she asked, an inscrutable expression on her face.

"That's me. And you are?"

"Name's Sarah. Sarah Lyons."

* * *

John and Sarah set out one hour before midnight. They inched out and around Primm's southern perimeter with hardly a word between them, then crossed I-15 half a mile from the NCR roadblock and turned north again. All communication was rounded down to short hand signals they agreed to before setting out. She led, claiming better night vision. John was too preoccupied with other matters to argue.

The moon was out and not a cloud in sight. It bathed the wasteland and slowed their advance to a sequence of crouched darts and bolts from low cover to low cover. One of them always kept an eye out for the sentinels patrolling on the great iron snake wrapping around Primm's eastern district while the other moved.

Sarah set the pace, slow and methodical, and John quickly took up the rhythm, but halfway to their destination, he made the grave mistake of thinking things were going along smoothly.

The wasteland readily saw to expunge such heresy. This time around, it was in the shape of a pair of radscorpions, each the size of a rocket car, locked into a territorial quarrel with three times their number in smaller bark scorpions.

John, flat on his belly behind a small rise in the ground, witnessed with a mix of fascination, awe, and anxiety the vicious snapping of bone-crushing pincers on chitin and the thrusting of stingers thicker than his leg. Shells were pierced and ichor showered the desert as the two bigger, stronger and more resilient specimens crushed their inferior kin, the smaller stingers scratching and bouncing against carapaces simply too thick for them to beat.

He didn't dare breathe or move, as the beasts hunted mostly by following vibrations, but his mind worked a mile a minute over and over the same point: if the scorpions noticed either of them, it was over. Not because he didn't believe they could take them: Fritz was a majestic weapon and a couple of shots would sever the stinger, or blind the creatures. Sarah's laser rifle would work fine too, the standard model heavily modified from what he could tell at a quick glance.

Guard duty was, however, notoriously dull as a rule and the Gangers atop the rollercoaster enjoyed an unparalleled view of the wasteland for miles. What better distraction than a free bout of wasteland violence, safely removed far away? One beam from either energy weapon, and they could kiss stealth goodbye, the rescue mission with it.

John risked a glanced to his companion. Sarah lay impossibly still for someone who drew breath, hair tucked under her helmet, her armor melding with the shadow of her cover. One hand was on the knife at her belt, still sheathed to prevent treacherous glints in the moonlight; the other braced before her for a quick rise into a crouch.

A final crunch and sickening tear signaled the end of the scuffle. Bark scorpions' remains littered the ground not fifty meters from John and the radscorpions eased into their hard-fought meal. Wet squelches and the crack of shattering chitin were the only sounds piercing the wasteland quiet for long minutes afterward, minutes that seemed to stretch for hours. John focused on his breathing, relaxing his tense muscles to avoid cramps that could well prove fatal for more people than himself, but his eyes remained glued on the feasting beasts.

Then it was over, as suddenly as it had begun. The radscorpions, their appetite sated and supremacy established, ventured away from I-15 deeper into the desert at impressive speed. The carnage and a trail of gory pincer-prints were soon the only signs of their passage, but it was still a long minute after they disappeared into the night before Sarah gave the signal to move.

John exhaled and the tension seeped from his muscles together with breath held too long.  _'Alright wasteland, I got it. No more fucking around.'_

* * *

Eventually, they found themselves at the base of the concrete wall surrounding Primm. John peered through one of the tall iron fences spaced out between the blocks, a concept that struck him as a poor choice against anything two-legged. Ferals could climb, after all.

A narrow back alley strewn with rubble and rebar ran between the wall and the backyards of what must have been a row of apartment blocks once. An apocalypse later, most consisted of only ground and the first floor. Empty windows gaped on the equally empty street, revealing peeks of interiors illuminated softly by the moon above or by the few streetlights on the other side.

Above and beyond, the top floors of the Bison Steve Hotel and Vikki and Vance Casino dominated the entire townscape, but only the neon on the former's façade was lit, as were a few windows on the top floors.

"Hayes' scouts noticed traffic between the casino and the hotel," he recapped, whispering. "The hostages must be held in one or both, but I'd wager the convicts would want true beds after months in prison."

"We go for the largest number then," Sarah said a moment later. "The casino would have holding cells in the basement, so most of the residents will be there. Only the young women and the troublemakers will be in the hotel. For sport."

John arched an eyebrow at the bluntness, then frowned. "Gangers will slit their throats once we send Hayes the signal," he pointed out.

Sarah rounded an icy glare on him. Whatever amicability she'd displayed at camp was gone in the field under a mask of professionalism. "Many against the few. The choice is easy." Her eyes returned to the back of the apartment blocks. "Besides, there'll be no signal until I find the men I'm looking for, so I don't rule out a sortie into the hotel too. I can't risk losing them."

"Who are they for you to risk so much?"  _'What about many against the few now?'_  She surely changed her mind fast.

"Colleagues," she said, voice devoid but of the faintest trace of warmth. "Johnson Nash and Daniel Wyand, both work for the Mojave Express. As do I, right now." Her eyes narrowed, and she touched the hilt of her knife. "Two targets. One on the first floor, house to the right. Sitting, it appears. Another's walking on the other side, saw him through that breach in the wall. I'll take him." She pointed.

John nodded, checked his knife again and cupped his fingers to give her a boost up. Sarah chose to ignore him instead and leaped without any run-up, hands catching the upper edge of the concrete block. John arched an eyebrow as she pulled herself up without nary a sound by arms' strength alone, armor and all, then hauled himself up behind her.

They landed with two muffled thuds and split up. John reached the opposite wall in seconds, then stopped, looking upwards until the distracted sentinel on the rollercoaster disappeared from view entirely. He spotted Sarah in his peripheral vision just as she disappeared around a corner, then put her out of his mind, carefully drawing his knife in his right hand as he crept past the empty doorway.

' _Upstairs, she said.'_

The interior was strewn with broken bottles, empty syringes, and bits of smashed furniture, but the pavement was concrete, as were the stairs. He navigated through the small minefield of noise inducers towards the stairs without fault and checked the door leading further into the ground floor for surprises, finding none.

Halfway up the stairs, the creaking of wood and a slurred curse made him freeze.

"Goddam… 's over again… oh shit, mah head…"

John inched up another few steps. He heard the convict stumble on his feet and a mumbled groan where he fell against the wall. He pressed himself against the corner and reversed his grip on the knife. His heartrate was up, a rhythmic throb around his scar with every contraction. Yet, unlike the excitement that scooped him up in those few, fatal minutes in Goodsprings, he felt more in control, calm. Almost poised to spring.

' _I fucked up once already. Badly. Not this time 'round.'_

"Dan… c'mon Dan, wake th'fuck up… need 'nother…"

A thud, then another muffled curse, incoherent mumbling.  _'Great, another junkie. Sounds wasted worse than the first.'_

John exhaled softly, then crept around the corner. A short corridor opened up into a wider room, a broken window granting him a quick glimpse of the street below. More syringes, a small pharmacy really, were discarded all around, and kneeling in the middle of it all was a ganger, shaking another one half-rolled into a worn sleeping-bag.

' _Poetic.'_  He covered the distance in two steps, pressed the artificial hand on the kneeling convict's mouth and sunk the knife deep between collarbone and trapezium at an angle. The blade cut through the lung, bisected the aorta and plunged into the heart. He twisted it, for good measure.

The ganger tensed for a moment, wheezed and then slumped against him. John felt warm blood on his palm, drooling out of the dead man's mouth, and lowered the body to the ground with nary a sound.

' _Bastard's so high he didn't notice a thing.'_  He spared the comatose man a look, then drove the knife into the exposed back of his neck. He passed seamlessly from sleep to death.

John cleaned the blade off the slacks of the corpse and looked out of the window, careful to remain invisible from any onlooker, casual or not. The apartment the addicts picked vaunted a ceiling, essential for privacy, and John was grateful for the dead men's thoughtfulness.

The street below was wide, well-lit and completely empty to boot, bar the decomposed bodies hanging from two of the streetlamps. John grimaced in disgust, then hurried downstairs and past the doorway he saw before, navigating through empty rooms and broken walls until he was through, a little to the west compared to the chem den.

He spotted the limp foot at the last moment, then the body it belonged to tossed behind a counter.  _'Ganger, dead,'_ was all he registered, and all that really mattered.

' _Now where's that woman?'_

The room he entered must have been a shop of some kind way back. Beside the counter, the whole front wall was open to the street, from the ceiling almost to the floor. Rundown shelves long picked clean lined both shorter walls.

Primm's main avenue opened up before him, cracked tarmac and wide sidewalks wrestled in between the casino and the hotel. Four streetlights faced each other off on either side of the street, pawns flanking the entrances of the slumbering giants behind them.

' _Let's make sure they remain asleep a while longer.'_

Two convicts hung around Vikki and Vance's doors, one sitting on a chair and perusing some pre-war magazine, the other leaning against the wall, pulling at his smoke. Both had rifles within easy reach and both had traded their convict clothes for sturdy leather armor which they wore under the Gangers' blue jacket uniform. Both were the picture of the bored guard counting down the minutes to their relief.

John judged the distance and grimaced. He'd be able to rush one, maybe, if luck was on his side. Then one shot would ruin it all.

' _Still, I'm pretty close. I could shoot both down and barricade inside the casino until the cavalry arrives. If they have nobody inside, ready to make true on their promise and pick off the hostages at the first sign of trouble. The sentinels above too, no way they won't see me and wake everyone up. Can't shoot the lights out either. Shit.'_

Too many ifs and variables. Too many things that could and would go wrong. Even assuming there was nobody inside the casino but the hostages, being found out would doom the ones in the hotel, an unknown number of them. He'd have to be in both places at once to have a chance at saving everyone, and that was simply plain impossible.

The choice was taken from him when he noticed movement on the balcony atop the casino's entrance. Sarah emerged from a belly-crawl, laser rifle tracing a bead across the street. An energy beam flashed through the night: one of the sentinels on the rollercoaster fell with a cry, hands clawing at the melted mask of what was left of his face.

' _Oh fuck!'_

Before the first splattered against the ground, another beam shot out, taking the second patrolman square in the chest. The two guards at the casino door dove for their weapons after a single moment of hesitation. It was all John needed to shake off his surprise and mute the screaming in his head.

Fritz pew'd in quick succession. The two guards fell just as quickly, smoke billowing from where the beams scorched their flesh. John vaulted over the counter and crossed the street at a run, exploiting the few seconds it would take the Gangers at the barricades to react.

He reached the door and the familiar stench of cooked flesh as Sarah dived from the balcony five meters above and landed with a roll, rifle out and checking for targets.

"Open it," she said, shooting two beams at a window. Someone cried. "Now!"

John grabbed with both hands at the lock keeping the heavy chain tied snugly around the double doors' handles. The thought of bobby pins briefly popped up and was brutally repressed.

John closed his left hand around the lock and wrenched.

The lock snapped after but a moment's resistance, the screech of metal eclipsed by the explosion of gunfire close by, an approaching cacophony of promised violence, and the hissing of Sarah's laser rifle belching beams non-stop at the Bison Steve's doors and windows.

John ripped off the handles when the chain didn't relent at the first pull, then kicked the door in and barged through, Fritz leveled before him. The empty casino's lounge welcomed him and after a cursory glance he turned and tapped Sarah on the shoulder.

"Peel!"

The blonde sent one last blast at a convict and spun to the side, then darted inside double time and John took up the barrage of lasers on the convicts without a moment's respite. He dropped one on the hotel's balcony and scared the living shit out of another who dared poke his head out, then retreated behind the double doors, keeping up a steady rate of fire.

Shots peppered his position moments later, pinging on the door. He answered with blind beams from Fritz. The gangers' fire picked up in intensity, pinning him behind the door, but John refused to retreat further inside. He bided his time and ground his teeth at every passing second.

' _Come on Hayes! Come on!'_

More guns barked into the firefight, and the weight of fire shifted from John to the new, more numerous threat. Exhaling, he rounded the doors and tore across the street, crashing shoulder-first into a stupefied convict just as he crossed the doorway clogged with the corpses of his gangmates.

They fell hard and John heard the ganger gasp under him, the breath driven out of his lungs by the impact and the SMG pinned between them, digging into his cracked ribs. John smashed Fritz's butt into his jaw, knocking the man unconscious, then ducked behind a corner as another sprayed the lobby with bullets, riddling his mate with lead and showering John with blood in the process.

' _How many are there?!'_

John blasted the man's leg into a cauterized stump, then again in the chest as he crashed to the ground screaming. He didn't stop to admire his handiwork but swept Fritz around the corner and sprinted into a deserted corridor, his steps bouncing off the walls.

Gunshots resonated behind him and to his right from a flight of stairs leading upstairs. A familiar weight settled snugly onto his chest as he took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the corridor to his left and the wide ballroom right in front of him.

' _God please, not again. Not again!'_

Up one ramp, then another. He didn't see the flamethrower until the smell of propane filled his nostrils.

Body overrode mind. He felt himself drop into a backward roll as the convict squeezed the trigger, igniting the gas and dousing the staircase in flames. John hit the steps hard on his back as the fire licked at his face, eating at his flesh. The Ganger's aim was thrown off as his arm buckled under the jet reaction, pushing the stream upwards and bathing the sloping ceiling.

Inertia carried John into a backward roll, slamming his back into the wall and drawing a choked gasp of pain from him as the Ganger tried to readjust his aim, finally cutting off the gas and levelling the fire gun at him. John lifted Fritz, muzzle shaking violently, vision swimming from the searing pain on his face and right hand. Gunfire exploded in his ears.

' _Wha-'_

The pyro toppled backward on the gas tank, then flopped to the side. Voices and loud steps washed over John, barreling up the stairs, and he felt a sting in his hand and neck, almost missing it with every inch of his skin  _burning_ like hell.

"Listen to my voice, John."  _'Who? Sunny –' "_  It's alright. You're gonna be alright, ok? Now rest, you've done enough. Let me handle it."

' _No. I can't. You won't - the girls - everyone - save'em! I have to –'_

The pain blunted under a building euphoria. His hands reached forward, grabbed blindly at the torn moquette. Other hands held him still, and darkness approached fast at the edges of his vision.

' _Story of my life.'_

It swallowed him.


	3. 3) The Sincerest Form of Flattery

**Chapter 3: The Sincerest Form of Flattery**

John was getting tired of funerals.

Lt. Hayes had no authority to confine him to rest and John, for his part, had no excuse to turn down attendance when Johnson Nash, the town's elected spokesman, asked for him by name outside the field hospital.

Doc Mitchell, acting the medical officer, flat-out rejected the request. Then John tore away the bandages around his face, revealing scars where second-degree burns and worse had been not twelve hours prior. That silenced any further protests and caused quite a few jaw dislocations when he stalked out of the tent, wincing at the sun beating on his face and painfully aware of the Doc's eyes boring into his back.

After such a grand exit, he found himself with nothing to do. It appeared that the general consensus wished for him to attend, but regarded him fit for nothing but rest. They didn't ask him to wrap the bodies up in sheets or drag them behind a line of shacks, where the town graveyard was. Citizens of Primm and NCR soldiers bent over shovels together, taking turns in preparing their dead's last place of repose.

The convicts', they'd burn: their bodies were already heaped in a pile. John caught a glimpse of the flamethrower in passing and looked away, his face stiff, the grimace pulling at sore muscles and stretching the cicatrized skin painfully.

' _At least I got rid of that bush on my face.'_

John stood by himself as Primm mourned its dead, finding it hard to breathe, hard to swallow, hard to  _think_. Sarah was conspicuously absent, and John hadn't seen – or heard – Sunny since he woke up. Doc Mitchell had told him she was 'helping around town', then bent over a wounded soldier. The woman's groans had ended their conversation.

The hung, their bodies prey to the elements and carrion eaters for days, stank like hell. The sheriff and his wife, left to rot even longer in their shack at the edge of town, were even worse. There was a moment of awkwardness when their turn came, and the NCR soldiers who 'volunteered' as muscle for the rites hesitated, turning looks bordering on the pleading to their commanding officer.

John felt something lurch inside him at the sight of their greening faces, but he didn't budge from his spot. They cowed under Hayes' stony countenance.

Bar those long dead, nine more were interred without any more incidents. Five were soldiers, their graves marked with the dates on their dog tags: not one was older than twenty. John briefly considered them, but they died doing their duty, fighting for their nation in a backwater ruin in the desert. Soldiers knew the risks when they signed up. Others would remember them.

He burned the remaining four's names in his memory, forcing himself to look at their faces, no matter how ruined, and hear their stories from parents and friends.

Anthony Beagle was the sheriff's wife's brother and his deputy. A soldier told him they found him in the Bison Steve's kitchen, gagged and bound, still kneeling on the floor. The binds kept him upright even after his captors shot him in the head while running to face Sarah and him.

He had no family to mourn or remember him. Only John. And at the moment, he felt singularly incapable of the former.

Nora, Fortuna, and Delilah were found upstairs, playthings for the Powder Gangers just as Sarah foreboded. Fortuna and Delilah had been twins and thus believed blessed with luck on birth. John guessed their parents, sobbing wrecks holding each other now that their world came crashing down around them, would disagree.

Nora… Sergeant McGee begged John to spare him the retelling, but he'd been merciless. He would remember them, all of them. He needed to remember, so that next time, he'd be fast enough and good enough to save even one more life.

Trudy, Pete, Chet. Beagle, Nora, Fortuna, and Delilah. Another list, this one filling up faster than the other, but whose names would remain even after a job well done.

* * *

A brief talk with Johnson Nash later – right before Sarah Lyons sequestered him and another man to the Mojave Express office with a smile on her face – turned John's attention away from the night prior and back on rails. Destination: Checkered Suit.

" _Great Khans? Ah, I believe Beagle mentioned 'em a while back. Old men and memory are a bad fit. Poor sod noted down everything, always scribbling he was. You can check the sheriff's office if you can stand the smell. Take what you want. We'll probably tear it down in a few days, what with the NRC getting cozy. Oh, and stop by later."_

Doc Mitchell had other plans.

"We need to talk," he announced, scowling darkly.

John looked around. The Doc planned it alright: out in the middle of Primm, soldiers and citizens alike milling around, the overpass a spitting distance away.  _'Next time, torches and pitchforks.'_

"We already did, last night. Thank you for patching me up, by the way. Don't you have patients to tend to?"

"Your concern is as touching as it is real. And we both know it's not me why your face looks almost new. Nor why you survived two bullets to your brain."

"Doc –"

"No, John." Mitchell shook his head, his expression wary, almost angry. His shoulders vibrated with tension. "I don't want an explanation or another bout of 'selective amnesia'. I don't care who you are, or what you are," he paused, staring him in the eye. "I want you to leave, and never come back."

John blinked. It was a slap in the face, but one he couldn't say he didn't expect or deserve. It was ironic, really. And depressing.

' _You were the first to welcome me to this world. You gave me my name. It's fitting you'll be first to cast me away.'_

But at the moment he was cranky, his head pounded like hell and he could feel the flesh in his face reknit and smoothing over as whatever kept him alive twice already alleviated the worst of his wounds. "You have no right to ask – no, command me. Or exile me."

The Doctor glared back from the moral high grounds of those who've lived far too long to give two shits about anyone else's opinion. "That's arguable. But I'll still do it. Finish your business here, then go. And don't take Sunny with you."

' _Oh. So this is it.'_  "She's an adult. She can make her own choices. And she can survive out there longer than you could ever hope to."

"Right now, her choices will likely lead to an early grave. And you'd be handing her the shovel. Her death would be on you."

Silence. Ligaments popped as his hands balled into fists. "Fuck you, Doc."

Mitchell sighed. "Don't mistake this for ingratitude. I am grateful John. I truly am. If not for me, for Sunny and Janine." John blinked again. Another sigh. "The girl. But you place yourself into the thick of things without hesitation, and you don't live an uneventful life. I won't ask you to change your ways: I don't think you'd know how and you've got the skills to pull it off. Ultimately, it's your business. But leave Sunny out of it."

John shook his head, eyes to the sky, and for the first time, he felt like laughing.  _'Hysterics. God, I don't know whether to feel miffed or flattered now.'_

"I left her at camp last night. Just like you asked me."

"You did. And one hour later she was shooting at Gangers on the overpass, skidding among landmines. I have got one badly injured man at the tent because of that: he'll probably lose his leg." The Doc rubbed his eyes and coughed in his hand. John waited, injured pride silencing the concern for the Doctor's own health. "Do you know how much turbo she's taken already? She hasn't slept for  _days_."

John exhaled violently, then passed an arm through his short cropped hair. "Then I'll help you tie her to a cot, dose her and flush the shit out of her system. Happy?"

"No," Mitchell said, matching John's disbelieving stare. "She looks up to you John, and don't deny what you shared the last night in Goodsprings. She was about to die, and you came to the rescue. You've killed raiders by the dime and saved people, a lot of people. Vengeance and heroism in the same package. What she wants to see herself as. But it's an image she can't take up. Maybe one day. But not in the condition she's in now."

"I'm no fucking  _hero_ , Doc. I thought you knew better," John hissed through gritted teeth.

"True, but you did more than most. The people in that casino owe you their life. And you showed up at the funeral wounded as you were, unlike that mercenary woman. Things like that tend to impress people. It's only a matter of time before she tries to emulate you. Last night was a testament to that, and it's gonna get worse the longer you hang around. And make no mistake: she's unhinged, and she'll die. And I'll never forgive you that."

John glowered, jaw set, fists clenching and unclenching spasmodically. Mitchell waited, unapologetic, but the scowl had disappeared, replaced by bone-deep weariness.

His mind flashed back to the conversation on the graveyard hill, the projects of vengeance, the alcohol, and Victor. The phantom scratches on John's back pulsed to obscure the pain in his face and hands. He remembered her wounded look, torn between anger, betrayal, and pleading when he told her to stay put in camp just the night prior. The way she absently caressed her rifle while deep In thought as the caravan shared gecko steaks.

The pressure on his chest reared its ugly head, squeezing his heart into mush.

John cursed under his breath and left, dropping the cowboy hat lower on his face. Mitchell watched him go for a moment, then rubbed his eyes and crossed the overpass to the field hospital, hand finding the photograph in his pocket.

Neither noticed the figure retreating from the balcony into Vikki and Vance Casino.

0 * 0 * 0

' _God, the stench!'_

John shut the door to the sheriff's house and office behind his back and exhaled violently, then sighed as fresh, only slightly smoky air filled his sore lungs. He coughed by reflex, then winced as his skin pulled. The peculiar smell of burning human flesh reached his nose as he contemplated the column of black smoke carving the sky in half just outside of town.

' _Too bad the wildlife would come back for seconds if they let the bastards rot. What's worse, two days into the world and I'm already getting used to it.'_

John pulled the duster closer around him and walked off, feeling the unfamiliar weight of the bowie knife across the back of his ammo belt. A couple of passing people did a double take when they spotted him, but John felt no shame in repurposing some of the late sheriff's belongings. The man's hat and tin star were clipped to his grave, and John would never take those anyway.

However, the duster was sturdy, good for camping in the cold desert nights and warding off the wind. The bowie would serve as a good backup weapon when things got hairy and one knife wasn't enough. The belt…

' _Well, Fritz needs no ammo, but my gun does, any other weapon I find will too. Better with me than molding somewhere else.'_

John looked at the sky from under the rim of his hat. The sun was halfway in its downward arch, but the Spring Mountains would cut off at least one hour of sunlight. The Doc's words echoed in his ears, but looking around he found himself unwilling to leave already and spend the night out in the cold, alone, when Primm would still be well within sight and memory in the morning.

' _Ah, fuck it. Nash wanted to talk. Maybe the notes will stir his old man memory.'_

He brushed the notebook in his pocket. Nash was right: Deputy Beagle was almost pathological in noting down his reports. The drawers of his desk were filled with stacked notebooks, a third of which still empty, if not pristine. Cataloged in that veritable maze of paper, John found the note he needed. His lips pressed into a grim line.

Checkered suit still had quite the retinue. Greased prick and his fashion statement were bound for Novac, but that was weeks ago. _'Seems though that Sunny's guess was spot on. Only way to reach the Strip now.'_

Before his mind could trip him into thoughts of the once spunky ranger, John halted in front of the Mojave Express office, just next door to the empty shop he shot the casino guards from. As if the turned off, big, neon sign screaming 'Mojave' wasn't telling, it was most impressively one of the few buildings two stories high with an intact roof atop it.

As he approached, the door swung inwards and Sarah Lyons stepped out, talking over her shoulder with a broad, black man with short cropped hair and a courier bag slung across his chest.

' _Now, how do I know that?'_

The man chuckled at something she said, but John didn't hear that. Instead, his eyes widened as a spherical robot half a meter in radius followed them out of the office, bobbing softly up and down at shoulder's height. A profusion of antennae shot out of its body, pointing down, backward and to the side, centered around a grill that covered it's front.

Foreign thoughts took possession of his mind.  _'That's an Eyebot. No, wait, not a regular one good only for info gathering and propaganda, that's the combat model! Laser gun, improved reversible thrusters and duraframe plating. What's a thing like that doing here?'_

The Eyebot chirped, shaking John out of his daze. He realized Sarah was talking to him.

" –op daydreaming, John. You in there?" Her tone was back to the friendly one from their introduction, devoid of the cold, assessing sharpness of the night excursion. In the daylight her features, while still stunning, seemed less sharp than he recalled at night. Behind her, the courier shook his head.

"Yeah, sorry. The Eyebot surprised me." He edged closer around her, curious despite still reeling from the sudden onslaught of information and images flickering into his brain. "Where did you find it?"

"The Eyebot? Oh, you mean ED-E. On the office counter. Nash said a courier brought it in some time ago. Someone had used it for target practice and then left it. Turned out it was just some minor damage to the energy dispenser." She arched an eyebrow at him. "You know what it is?"

John hesitated, then nodded.  _'How? Checkered really played a number on me.'_  "Yeah. I think so, at least. It's a patrol and maintenance unit. They were mass-produced before the war, mostly for civilian use, but weren't really built to last. This one is a combat model. You lucked out big time, Sarah."

She held his gaze for a second, then shrugged. "I never say no to a bonus." Shielding her eyes, her expression turned sour. "The Lieutenant dragged out that conversation far too long. What do you say, Wyand," she said, turning to the courier now lounging to the side. "Up to head out while there's still light? We can camp at the Patrol Station and continue at dawn tomorrow without losing time at the checkpoint."

A small smirk played on the man's lips and he shrugged. "Fine by me, Sarah. The sooner we leave, the sooner we get there."

"Good." She adjusted the strap of her laser rifle across her chest and patted her pocket. Caps jingled. "We're off then. John, it's been a pleasure."

"Likewise, Sarah," he said, shaking her hand. He offered a nod at the courier. "Safe travels."

"You too. Maybe we'll meet again. The Mojave is a sandbox."

John watched them walk away for a few seconds, chatting already. His vision was full of the woman's swaying hips, and he enjoyed the view for a few moments more. Then he shook his head and pushed the door.

A small bell rang above his head and John stopped to stare. The two men on each side of the counter put down their glasses, brown liquid lapping at the rims, and Hayes motioned him forward.

"Ah, Mr. Doe. Come in, don't stand in the door. I was looking for you. Johnson here said you'd be stopping by."

"Hm, yeah." John took a moment to look around himself. The post office was large and well-lit by the light filtering through the opaque, cracked glass and a spinning fan lamp. A counter decorated with two glasses and a half-empty bottle of whiskey spanned the length of it, a close resemblance to its ruined counterpart Sarah used as a corpse dump. One corner was dominated by a blocky, rusted dropbox that reminded John of a pre-war copy machine stamped with faded 'Mojave Express' all over.

It was clear by the shelves covered in all kinds of cheap to decent goods that Nash doubled as the local tradesman; on cue, the singed leather armor started stinging under his duster.  _'Beggars can't be choosers. Suck it up, John.'_

"Drink?" offered Nash, producing another glass from under the counter.

"Thank you." He grabbed and downed it in one swift motion, relishing the burn of the alcohol down his throat and the heat as it nestled into his stomach. "So, who's first?"

"That sounds like a threat, Mr. Doe," said Hayes, then dropped the official tone with a shrug. "Jokes aside, I wanted to thank you. We'd still be on the other side of Primm without you and that Lyons woman."

"And we well owe you our lives, boy. Them gangsters'd have hung us all in a coupla days once they got bored." Nash grimaced, rubbing his neck for emphasis. The web on his leathery face darkened in grief. "It's a goddamned shame for Nora and the girls."

John felt his fist clench, mind flashing to the women's faces - what remained of Nora's, really - but said nothing. Hayes nodded in sympathy and poured Nash another whiskey, which the man downed quickly.

"Rest assured, that will be the last you hear of the Powder Gangers. And that," he turned to John once more "that's exactly what you and I are going to talk about."

"I'm all ears, Lieutenant. When are we moving?"

"Not so fast, John," chided Hayes. "First, this is for last night's work. You did the NCR a service. We appreciate it.  _I_ appreciate it."

John caught the small pouch, feeling the caps inside shift and jingle in his hands. Hayes continued, "One-hundred fifty caps, same as Lyons. And there's more where that came from, but for that, I need you to come with me." He rose from his stool and patted the front of his armor. "Johnson."

"Lt. Hayes" Nash tipped the brim of an imaginary hat. "John. Come back anytime." John choked down a mirthless chuckle.

"I thought the people here weren't all that fond of the NCR," said John once the door closed behind them. Hayes, official face back in position, started towards the overpass.

"They aren't," Hayes deadpanned. "Many demand the NCR protection, but would sooner see us out in the desert than pay a cap in taxes. They pride themselves in an independence they never possessed and see us as some watered-down alternative to the Legion, only with fewer slaves and more taxes and bureaucracy."

John took off his hat and batted it against his thigh, sighing as the constant itching of his scar abated. "Where they depend on your caravans and the tourists to the Strip to get by, you mean?"

"There's that," the soldier conceded. "But there's more. The NCR brings civilization, John. Our technicians operate the Dam and give the Mojave electricity and running water. We patrol the highways, deal with raiders, slavers and mutants. The Followers came in our wake, despite the whole mess with them. The Gangers were brought in to expand the railways from McCarran to the south. And each of these things is paid with the blood of our soldiers."

Hayes' voice lowered and his face grew grimmer. "I lost five good men last night. Two more are no longer fit for duty. And all the acknowledgment we got was a shot of whiskey and a tepid welcome. But I must remain  _diplomatic_." He almost spat the last word.

John remained silent at that. He understood the man's frustration, or at least he thought he did. To give his best, putting himself and the men under his command in danger where he could have waited, only to emerge empty-handed and with more lost lives weighing down on him.

The breath hitched in his throat.  _'Yeah, I know where you come from.'_

"But enough of that." They crossed the overpass and Hayes ushered him into his tent. Nothing had changed since the last time he entered. Was it really less than a day ago? John could hardly believe it. "I've more caps for you to assist in the next part of the operation. Let's say, two-hundred. You in?"

John cast a look at the ever-present map and resisted his first impulse to jump right in.  _'Novac's far and the Strip further away. I'll need the cash'_  part of his mind said, while the other struggled with his self-control to throw his lot in just for a chance at the convicts.

"I need details," he ventured "but I'm interested."

Hayes grunted. "The Outpost radioed in. The strike team hit the road this morning. They ought to arrive by tomorrow at midday. Then, we leave a token force here and march on the prison."

"How many? And what resistance do you expect?"

The Lt. shot him a look, hmmed but then nodded. "Twenty from the outpost, plus two rangers. From here, Sgt McGee will guide you. He's already scouted the area around the prison. Ranger Ghost and Sgt. Lee will be in overall command of the operation."

"How many of the fuckers are holed up in there?" John asked again, leaning heavily on the table.

"The last census had one hundred and twenty prisoners. A number of them died during the escape, then they fractured in bands and groups of their own, mostly reforming the gangs they belonged to. They quarreled, of course. Hate and grudges run deep in their business."

A finger circled the map to the north and east of Goodsprings. "A large group, forty at least, moved north some time ago before Quarry Junction became off-limits. Others struck off on their own, like Cobb or that Chaves scum we nailed down two weeks ago. The rest remains loosely under Eddy's command." Hayes' fingers drummed a tune on the table. "Between here and Goodsprings, it's at least another thirty cut from that number."

"Best case scenario, they still outnumber you. And they'll barricade inside the moment a uniform crests the hill. Probably are already."

"We'll count on that." At John's confusion, Hayes explained. "The more inside the complex, the better. The Powder Gangers don't hold the monopoly on explosives in this corner of the world."

"You'll wreck the facility. Where will you house the next batch you set to work on the monorail then?"

Hayes shrugged, then straightened. "That's above my paycheck. But Outpost was clear we shouldn't waste time on prisoners." The Lt's hand inched forward. "Now. You in?"

John shook it without a moment's hesitation, mouth pressed into a thin, grim line. "A good Ganger is a dead Ganger."

0 * 0 * 0

John was shaken from nightmares of women's faces contorted in pain and suffocation by steps fast climbing the stairs to his floor.

' _Third time tonight. I'm gonna kill you, Ringo.'_  Cracking one eye open, he noticed a weak glow seeping through the cracked shutters.  _'Dawn. Barely. Another hour won't-'_

The steps reached his door. By the time Doc Mitchel barged through the door, ashen-faced and struggling for breath, John was already on his feet, knife out.

"What the hell Doc! Trying to score a stroke?!"

"John - " he wheezed, slumping against the doorsill. John stepped in to support him before he hit the ground. The old man was shaking and sweating. "John – she - ugh - she's –"

"You'll tell me later, Doc," John cut him off, strong-arming the frail man to the bed. "Sit down, breathe. Don't speak."

"You don't – she - Sunny – "

Women's faces. Screaming, contorting into a haze of crimson. John's heart skipped a beat. He grabbed the Doc by the shoulders, a moment away from shaking the answer from the man's bones. "What's wrong with Sunny? She hurt?"

"She's left, gone," the Doc managed, then a coughing fit gripped him. Seconds slowed to hours as John was riveted to the floor. "Watch told, she went.. she went for a walk after dinner." The Doctor lifted sunken eyes to John's face. "She's not come back, John. Watch said –ugh – said he heard gunfire. From the east."

He was out of the door before the Doc finished the sentence. Two doors down, he barged through without knocking. Ringo bolted upright on his bed, hand reaching for his gun. The half-naked woman beside him didn't stir, an empty Med-X on the nightstand.

"John? What –"

"Doc's in my room. Look after him." And he was gone.

Fritz batted against his side as he took the steps three at a time. He pushed the Bison's door wide and wind tore at his duster, beating on his face. He stopped and looked up, then behind, eyes narrowing against the grains of sand the wind kicked up. Clouds shadowed the Spring Mountains, yellow-orange as the desert-sand, sick and foreboding.

Ringo's words echoed in his head. " _The storms from the Divide are already bad enough with that single gap."_

' _Son of a bitch.'_

He took off at a run, retracing the Doctor's steps and rocketing into the small NCR camp. The only sentinel was too busy with his nose up in the air to stop him. A brahmin mooed in discomfort, pulling at its leash.

"Hayes!" he shouted as a greeting, bursting through the flap. "I need Sergeant McGee!"

The M16A1 levelled at his chest didn't even register. Hayes, clad only in his BDU pants, gave him a once over, then slowly lowered the rifle and rose from the cot. "John, what in the actual fuck – "

"No time! I need McGee and I need him now. Sunny just went missing!" The Lt. frowned, then it darkened into a scowl.

"You don't think – "

"I do," John slashed the air before him, teeth gritting. "Doc said the night watch heard gunfire in the hills. She went after them."

"Then she's dead," Hayes decided after a moment. John had to stop himself from strangling the man. "I'm sorry, but I won't send you and the Sergeant into this folly. She's made her choice."

" _Right now, her choices will likely lead to an early grave. And you'd be handing her the shovel."_

" _Her death would be on you."_

"Goddamnit, don't rule her out!"  _'She's alive. She must be. '_ "Give me McGee, we'll move ahead of your fucking strike team."

"No."

John punched Hayes straight in the face.

The lieutenant probably expected that, but John was faster, angrier. His right hand struck out like a coiled rattler and connected with Hayes' nose, sending him careening into his cot gushing blood from the nose.

The flap fluttered closed behind him. A moment later he grabbed the night watch by the shoulder pad and shook him from his weather contemplations.

"Wha –"

"The gunfire tonight. When?! Which direction?!"

"I – I –" The soldier looked into John's eyes and swallowed thickly." North and w-west, sir. 'Round midnight, one o'clock in the mornin' top. Sir."

John pushed him away and took off. The wind picking up carried Hayes' shouts to his ears long after he left Primm behind.

0 * 0 * 0

He wasn't a tracker. Even in his heightened state, adrenaline and fear pumping in equal measures through his veins, he knew that. That's what Sgt. McGee the scout was for.

There was not much missing a body sprawled in the middle of the wastes, though. Not when that body was clad in navy blues and the first, intrepid bloatflies buzzed around the congealed blood and cooling flesh for the choicest pick.

John didn't know whether to feel elated or listen to the sinking pit in his stomach.

Two slashes of the bowie later and the insects crunched to the ground in broken halves. He kneeled beside the body and tore away a large strip of cloth from his jacket, wrapping it around his mouth and nose to fend off the increasing quantities of sand the storm was throwing at him.

' _A gunshot wound to the side of the head. Rifle or large caliber pistol. Sunny. Was he alone?'_ He turned his head around frantically, narrowing his eyes. The sun was up, but little of it penetrated the clouds rolling overhead from the Divide.

' _There. Fucking storm. More blood there, surely not this one's. No bodies, though. Injured, severe, nicked a vessel.'_ Again, his head darted left and right, eyes aching to take everything in.  _'No dragging signs or bloody paws. Bootprints. No bodies.'_

They'd taken her.

Relief at her survival mixed with anger at her stupidity, then with worry at the tempest messing with the tracks. Fear gripped his mind next, looping his thoughts, drying his throat to wasteland-standards.

' _They took her. To the prison. Too many of the bastards.'_

He started running, bootprint after bootprint, drop of blood after drop of blood. He didn't even know why anymore. She killed one of them. Attacked them, on their turf. They'd spare her only to make her wish she was dead in the first place, over and over again.

And he could do nothing about it.

He ran. Until his legs ached, then burned. Until the pounding in his head grew from a drum to a military procession slamming boots against his skull. Until he felt ready to puke out his lungs. The traces ended and he looked around, eyes dancing wildly in his sockets.

' _There. Lights. A tower. It's the prison. Fuckfuckfuck, where is the strike team?'_

He stood in the storm, listening, but there was only the wind roaring in his ears, the wind gluing the duster to his back. Pushing him forward, towards the lights. John's grip on Fritz tightened until his hand was numb and his knuckles white, then he took a step forward, and heard the voices.

"C'mon Lem, don't be mad –"

' _Where?'_ He spun around, but the wind battered at his ears, forcing his eyes shut.

"You selfish prick, you squeez'd too long – "

' _There!'_ He bulldozed forward then slid down a slope, gravel sliding under him and more dust joining the ranks of the storm. The light of a lantern flickered at the mouth of a cave, then disappeared from view.

"What's the problem, pal?"

"You didn't share and we're stuck in the middle of a fuckin' storm, that's mah problem!"

John rounded into the cave, his feet turning into lead with every step. The wind pulled at the tail of his duster, trying to force him out, but then he was inside and the wind only a howl miles and miles away. He skipped over a body, male and with a belt tied around his thigh, blood a small pool around him.

"Stop a bein' a pickish prissy. She's still warm, y'see? I'll turn around if you're shy – "

"I'll show you shy, you damn – Hey, who the fuck are you?"

Red, pounding red filled John's vision. Wails and cries and pleas roared in his ears, outshouting the storm outside. He grabbed the muzzle of a rifle pointed at him and  _wrenched_ , snapping the barrel and driving it into the gut of the man in front of him in the same motion, then wrenching again, to the side. Something hot sliced his face and he turned, grabbing the offending arm and twisting it until he heard and felt it snap.

Wails and spluttering replaced curses in the blink of an eye. John grabbed the scruff of hair in front of him and drove it into the wall, again and again and  _again_ , until the sickening crunches weakened into wet splats and blood and brain matter coated his arm to the elbow.

Behind him,  _something_  gurgled. Kneeling, hands groping listlessly at the intestines lolling out of the gaping tear in its belly. John kneeled before it and the haze, like it came, dispelled, leaving throbbing clarity in its wake. He stared into the thing's eyes and saw them widen and roll up as he plunged his left hand into its belly. His fingers closed around a spine.

"Still warm, y'see?"

The Ganger flopped forward, spashing into a pool of his own blood. A pool John was kneeling into. Reality flooded back in. The cave. The wind howling outside. The pungent smell of blood and urine and waste. Blood, in his mouth, down his neck. The dead Ganger at his feet. Sunny.

"Sunny?"

"Sunny?!"

He rose, turned around, and saw her.

She stared up at the ceiling, unseeing, eyes streaked with red and black. John felt his knees hit the ground, the final dregs of anger he worked on dissipated. He stared at her neck, bruised blue, then at his own hands. The left, impossibly still, while the right didn't stop shaking, the tremor carrying up his arm, grabbing hold of his chest, of his entire being.

' _So many. Too many. Why? Why her? It's been only three days. Only three days.'_

John folded onto himself, wrapping his blood soaked arms around his belly. He folded onto himself, forehead brushing hers, and he tasted salt mixed with the metal of blood in his mouth, heard the plic-plic on Sunny's still face and the first sob rocked his body.

She stared up at the ceiling as he came apart at the seams.

Later, much later, when the wind died down and natural light bounced off the cave walls, John closed her eyes, dressed her in her bloodied leathers and returned the revolvers to her belt.  _'Prize and memento.'_

Then he lifted her in his arms and began the long trek back.

"Lower your weapons, soldiers," Hayes voice was more nasally, he noticed. He also noticed a large number of guns pointed at him, or simply milling around. The ground, the tarmac, even the building's facades, all were covered in a film of orange sand.

"She's that lass? The one who went batshit crazy and thought- ?" muttered a pale woman with a cowboy fetish. A man in bulky, camo armor elbowed her in the ribs. "What? Don't be a hypocrite, Morales."

"We thought they got you," said Hayes with his nasally voice, ignoring the bickering in the ranks.

John nodded. "They didn't. Not me."

"I see. I should put you under arrest."

John didn't deign him with a reply. He stared. Through a gap in the throng of soldiers, he saw a bald head advance, naked dread and dawning realization.

" _The storms from the Divide are bad enough already with a single gap."_

"I should, but I won't." A hand on his shoulder. An old man, shouldering through armored soldiers. Squeezed. Pushed. Cursed. "I'll let you go and bury her."

Closer. Closer. Mitchell's head emerged from between two soldiers. Then his shoulder. Then an arm, clawing forward.

' _Why won't you look at me, old man? You were right. Right all along.'_

John kneeled, braced Sunny with her back propped against his knee. Her head lolled to the side, and there were more hands, other hands, steadying it, steadying her, caressing her face. Going through movements ingrained by a lifetime of experience, the same experience that tells such actions are useless.

' _Look at me, old man. You were right. Say it!'_

Sobs rent the air. A murmur rose from the crowd.

"Or you can come, and settle it once and for all."

John's hand brushed Fritz's trigger. He exhaled and rose, leaving Sunny in the Doc's care. Like he should have in the first place.  _'Ugly, selfish prick.'_

"Lead the way."

0 * 0 * 0

Consciousness returned by bits and pieces, slipping out of his grasp like mirelurk eggs before he could grab it fully. Wyand groaned as light burned into his eyes, then bit down on his tongue, falling silent.

He found himself suspended from the ground, his limbs manacled to bars, the chains pulled tight. He struggled, briefly, but knew at first glance the bindings wouldn't budge.

' _So this is it.'_ Realization sank in, and he felt only a pang of regret before acceptance settled. He'd die, after many years of service. He knew this day would come the moment they came to his tent, pulled him out of the ranks. Service, wading through the pollution of the Mojave and beyond, then, one day, death. Fitting. Appropriate.

What remained was the satisfaction of fouling whatever plans his captors had for him. They should have killed him while he was out.

Memory stirred, and the breath hitched in his throat.  _'No, impossible.'_  Then his captor sauntered in, spinning a gold coin on her finger. Her face could have been granite for the emotion it showed. Shame burned through him like Greek fire. Then came desperation.

' _No, not like this. Not by a woman's hands. There's no honor in this.'_

"Frumentarius," she said, tossing the coin aside. "Posing as a courier. Smart, if predictable."

"Kill me or shut up, woman."

"I will kill you," she told him, matter-of-factly. She picked up a syringe from the open med-kit on a table nearby and uncorked the needle. Clear liquid shot up for a moment as she tapped the plunger.

"But first, you will talk. You will tell me of the six packages, and who carried them."

"Make me, profligate," he spat. He forced the desperation down, walling it up behind pride and determination. Then the needle broke his skin, and liquid fire shot through his body, beyond the scope and meaning of the word agony.

Daniel Wyand, known elsewhere as Germanicus, Legion Frumentarius, screamed.

Later, Sarah undid the bindings and the Frumentarius flopped forward, cracking his head on the cold floor tiles. Only a little blood trickled out. Turning to the table, she placed the spent syringe into the box and recovered a small bottle of pills labeled with 'Rad-X'.

Careful not to touch her skin to the contents, she let one drop on the corpse and watched with only vague interest as the chemicals reacted and started eating away at Wyand's flesh, leaving the clothes untouched.

Then she tapped her ear. "Harkness, this is Lyons." A few moments of silence stretched, broken only by a faint sizzling as the Frumentarius' tissues were decomposed down to atomic components.

"No, I haven't found it yet," she said. "But I found a copy of the delivery receipt in Primm. Package six was the chip, bound north to the Strip through the I-15. I'll be heading there next." Silence. Sarah frowned.

"The NCR is a non-issue so far. One of the couriers hired for the job was Legion though. One of Vulpes's, yes – I know we accounted for his interference, but so far he knows less than we do about Courier Six's identity. I was thorough."

Silence. Sizzling. Sarah repacked the pills and tied the med-kit to her belt.

"No, the courier stamp on the delivery register belongs to the Followers. Probably a fund-raising run. It was a dead pick-up, nobody saw the Courier on this end but the Securitron."

She repacked the Frumentarius' bag with its sparse belongings and picked up the gold coin, examining the austere profile and the script underneath. 'Aeternit Imperi.' Sarah shook her head and packed it too.

"Mr. House, or one of the family heads of the Strip working for him. Nobody else has that many caps to throw around, or the reason to. And Johnson Nash, the local Express officer, confirmed they were hired by a Securitron with a cowboy face. That's our guy."

The pills' work was almost done, she noticed. Sarah unslung her rifle from the hanger by the door and replaced it across her back, tugging at the strap. Looking around for anything else she might have missed, she nodded to herself.

"So far, I'm under the radar. And I've something for you. An Eyebot, a Duraframe Enclave model from back East. Looks like the Wanderer failed to destroy them all when he nuked himself on the Crawler."

Sarah stopped, then shook her head as if to clear it. She knelt by the pile of empty clothes and balled them up into a bundle she tucked under her arm. The Eyebot chirped at her as she walked out of the detention wing, but Sarah tilted her head toward the entrance and continued, trusting the robot to follow. It did, if after a moment's hesitation

"Exactly. I'll try and crack the records on the way to the Strip. I'll contact you when I have something, by mission parameters. And keep me updated on the robot. I'd like a face to go with the Followers' stamp."

Outside, she dropped the Frumentarius' belonging into a hole in the ground, then used a flat slab of scrap metal torn from a car to heap the soil onto it. She then threw the impromptu shovel away and dragged a trash bin over the hole to conceal the disturbed dirt from sight. It was overkill, as any traveler would be more interested in looting the dead Jackals strewn inside and outside the station, or avoiding the carrion eaters that'd flock to the feast soon, but she'd choose certainty over chance if given the chance.

Satisfied, she patted her hands to shake off the film of sand and rust and walked into the desert, ED-E trailing her a little way back.

"One last thing. I've met someone in Primm. He carried an energy weapon I couldn't identify. The left arm was prosthetic but indistinguishable to the naked eye. Yes, a perfect copy on the outside. Claims to be amnesiac, calls himself John Doe, but he has the same regenerative boost as that last batch of Infiltrators. No, I don't think he's lying. He's gunning for Vegas, so I'll keep an eye on him. You search for their base. They never move solo."


	4. 4) When the Whiskey Ropes You In

**Chapter 4: When The Whiskey Ropes You In**

Ranger Jackson turned back to the ominous pile of paperwork screaming 'bureaucracy' glaring up from his desk as the umpteenth – and hopefully last – caravaneer of the day shut the door on the way out a little more forcefully than necessary.

' _I told Knight to stop forwarding the complaints to my desk. Must be filling his pockets with all the greasing coming his way.'_

And it was telling that a high-ranking officer accepting bribes was the least of the problems on his hands, and one he couldn't tackle yet. He was short of personnel in the first place, and for all his faults – Jackson cringed at the thought of the fabulous Major – he kept the Outpost running as much as Jackson did.

But he was a headache for another time. First, it was the Powder Gangers, ransacking the region and crippling trade. Because when some douche politico at the Hub had the revolutionary idea of putting raiders and slavers close to huge amounts of dynamite, and then thinning the guard complement down to its bones, nobody thought otherwise.

' _That it took the convicts that long to set it up is a monument to their incompetence.'_

_Of_ course,the task of restoring order fell on his shoulders, but all his requests for more soldiers, rather than recruits fresh from boot camp usually sent his way, got unsurprisingly lost in the maze of NCR bureaucracy, a place even Knight failed to navigate. But Jackson was nothing if not a resilient man, a Black One and one of the highest ranked Rangers in the NCR military. And so, he made do.

Then Camp Searchlight went dark two days prior. The last transmission from a patrol from Forlorn blabbed of hordes of ferals and radiation clouding the whole city.

An hour later, half the Outpost had heard of the news from a panicked comms officer and Jackson was besieged from all sides by caravaneers and his own soldiers demanding answers he didn't have.

The Ranger rubbed his tired eyes, his throat itching for a drink. The mooing of brahmins waltzed in from the small window behind him, topped occasionally by the raised voices of caravaneers arguing with the soldiers or among themselves. Evening and nighttime would only change the instruments, silencing the brahmins in favor of the drunken clamor of dozens of frustrated caravaneers drinking the Outpost's supply of alcohol dry.

Which only engendered more attrition between the soldiers and the merchants and filled the prison wing to the brim every night.

' _At least if Lacey keeps making this many caps she won't have any more excuse to keep the cantina in the barracks. Might be the only good thing out of this clusterfuck.'_

The door to his office swung open once more and Jackson groaned.

"Stuff it Jackson. This is the victor's welcome I get for doing your dirty work?"

"Ghost. Please, not today," he sighed as she plopped down on a chair and crossed her boots on his desk. "Just make this quick and go catch some sleep. I need you back on your perch first thing in the morning, watching the highway. And no roughing up the guests."

Where he half-expected and half-dreaded some sassy comeback, Ghost's pale face turned somber and she removed her shades. Only then did he notice the dark circles under her eyes.

"Sleep my ass. I'll need alcohol after yesterday, no kidding. A lot of it."

At that, Jackson brow sailed high up. Ghost was a purist, and he relied on her for it. Sarsaparilla was the furthest she went on most days. He fished out a transcription of Hayes' radio report from yesterday's pile of documents and quickly re-read it, then frowned at the other Ranger.

"Seems things turned out quite well. Minimal losses. Better than we expected, actually."

Ghost, who'd been clearing her glasses as she waited, rolled her eyes, then muttered "Yeah, more greenhorns survived to go get hacked apart by Caesar at Forlorn Hope. Yippee-ki-yay."

"That's war, Ghost," Jackson replied flatly, and mentally sighed. Ghost was confrontational and snappy at best from the day the Chief saddled him with her. Always complained they were sitting with their 'thumbs up their asses' while the Mojave went to shit, to quote one of her classics. Jackson figured some action would do her good.

Apparently, he'd missed the mark with her. Again.

"You're still hung up for 1st Recon?" Ghost bristled visibly at the question, but Jackson held her glare. She might have recruits soil their breeches, but he'd seen too many rangers like her – volunteers who didn't get the recognition they felt they deserved and so gave grief to anyone around them – to be intimidated. "They'll draft you up next rotation and I'll be able to finally breathe."

"You'd be way less snarky if you'd seen Eddie and his bodyguards after Doe was done with them," she snapped and shot to her feet, but a glare from Jackson had her sit down again, albeit begrudgingly.

He grimaced as the dots connected. "Hayes tells it that he contracted a couple of mercenaries to help with the hostage situation in Primm. Had the town pool their caps to pay them too. I take this Doe is one of them? He tagged along to the CF?"

"Yeah, the gal left before we reached town. And from the bit of melodrama we walked in to, you couldn't tell the man was a fucking psycho _!_ "

Jackson picked up the report again. "Hayes makes no mention of any merc involvement after Primm."

"Probably because he was too preoccupied with puking his guts out. You trust that piece of paper more'n my word now, Jackson?" Ghost snarled, but her hands shook. She looked down and curled them into fists. "Fuck. I've seen Legion with more mercy than he had. And he's here now. Here at the Outpost."

"Alright. Ghost?" He waited until she met his eyes, and put up his more no-nonsense face. "Enough dancing around it. Tell me everything. From the beginning."

* * *

 

"Another new face at the Outpost," the bartender greeted as John reached the counter after much wedging and shouldering. She gave him a once over and wrinkled her nose in distaste. "What will you have?"

"Alcohol," he grunted. "Whiskey. Vodka. Whatever you've got." After a moment's thought, he added. "Leave the bottle."

The bartender hummed in appreciation and scooped out a dusty bottle from the shelf behind her. The dark spirit sloshed tantalizingly when she placed the bottle in front of him and asked for some outrageously absurd number of caps.

He paid without protest and shouldered his way back through the crowd pressing on the counter. The reek of booze and sweat saturated the air, but there was no mistaking the blood on his duster and armor. It actually did much of the work for him, shutting up more than one bold caravaneer or soldier who had something to say about his borderline strong-arm tactics.

A minute later he commandeered the last empty table in the room, glared away the competition and uncorked the bottle, pouring a first, generous drink.

Then he let the hubbub of too many people in too cramped a space too much into their cups wash over him as he did his best to join the latter category.

"  _\- a nuke, I tell you! The Brotherhood must have found some pre-war stash. It's the Steel Scourge all over -"_

" _- fuck're you saying Clem? It was the Legion. Everyone knows we kicked the tin cans out of the Mojave. My cousin was at Helios One –"_

" _\- stuck here to watch the big shots saunter by! See anyone tell Crimson Caravan or Gunderson's cronies the roads ain't safe?"_

" –  _we do like those fellas from Vault City two days ago. If we stick together, form a big group, Jackson will let us pass – "_

Half the bottle later, John's stomach was alive with the burn of alcohol but the room refused to start spinning. He watched hollowly as two troopers grabbed a caravaneer drunk beyond sense and threw him out of the door. The two met his look and John saw one lean to whisper something in the others' ear, desert-beaten faces studying him with narrowed eyes.

John toasted silently to them, fervently hoping they would catch offense and try to evict him from his seat. Under the table, his left hand closed into a fist.

Then someone plopped in the seat in front of him, and eye contact was broken.

John saw red, but this time it had nothing to do with uncontrollable emotion. The woman's hair was red, redder than arterial blood, red like dancing flames. Redder than Sunny's. She tossed a rangy duster on the only other vacant seat and planted her cowboy boots over it, stretching her legs, then placed another bottle-and-glass set on the table. John's eyes flickered to the shotgun hanging across her back by a leather strap, a leather strap crossing her chest and somehow leading his eyes to the camisole she wore, and the amount of cleavage she showed –

"Looking for trouble, cowboy?" she asked as she brought the drink to her lips. Whiskey, he noticed. Grey eyes studied him from under the rim of a rattan cowboy hat sporting a comprehensive collection of holes.

"Table's full," he replied flatly, then downed another shot.

"I call bullshit. Not about to drink standin' 'cause someone wants to be a sad drunk alone."

John frowned at her, then at the bottle that was emptying too fast while he was still too sober. "Do what you want then."

"You betcha," she hummed, and he could hear the smirk in her voice without looking at her. "Besides, at the rhythm you're goin', you'll have to go fetch another bottle or they'll throw you out soon enough. Then table's mine."

He grunted, not about to fall for the hook. A few minutes and glasses later, the bottle was empty and John too sober for his own liking. Opposite to him, a rosy blush was spreading on the woman's cheeks, but her hand didn't tremble or sway once. John looked down at his. Only the right shook, and feebly at that.

' _Damnit. That was watered down. Where's the fuzzy head when I want it?'_

"Seems you got scooped," she pointed out. John glared at her, then picked up her bottle and poured himself one.

"Sonofabitch!" she cursed, "That's breakin' the Caravan Code." Yet, she didn't make to stand up or call the troopers in attendance over. He cursorily noticed quite a few people looking away as he scanned the room.

"So what?" he downed the whiskey, then almost choked on it as his throat exploded in fire. She laughed and added a snort at the end of it.

"That's karma for you. Anyway, you break the Code, you get yourself a punishment." One hand disappeared under her suede jacket and reemerged holding a deck of cards, thick and flayed at the edges from use. "You play?"

John shook his head. Her face split with a Cheshire grin.

"Then we drink." Without another word, she stood up and disappeared into the milling crowd, leaving her hat as placeholder. John watched her go, then poured himself a double from her bottle. It clinked empty with his when he put it back on the table.

Then the crowd parted, and a man with an impressive handlebar mustachio and mirrored shades took the place the redhead just vacated. John took in the ammo belt bandoleer, the Winchester repeater at his shoulder and the way everyone moved out of his way, and decided this one meant – or was – business.

' _That I can think so clearly still is depressing.'_

"John Doe?"

John nodded, looking into his glass longingly. The man's voice droned on. "I'm Ranger Jackson. I'm in charge of this brahmin pen. Ghost says you were at Primm, and then at the CF."

"Did it for the money," he grunted and closed his eyes. "Ask Major Knight. My tag says 'mercenary'. And I have yet to see a cap for the second one."

"About that, forget it." John's head snapped up. "Lt. Hayes had no authority to contract mercenaries in the first place. Still, you helped and spared some of my boys a pointless death, so I'll let you walk away in the morning."

John stared, eyes narrowing. A flush was rising up his neck like the morning tide. "I'm sorry?"

"You should be," Jackson deadpanned. "You attacked a NCR officer in the middle of a military operation. Regulations say I should have you chained and tossed into the prison ward. Instead, I'll let you leave in the morning. Consider yourself warned." The Ranger tipped the rim of his hat and rose. "Safe travels, Butcher."

John was on his feet before the Ranger took a step away. "What did you call me?"

"Butcher," the Ranger repeated unapologetically. "Courtesy of what you did to Eddie and his thugs at the prison. The boys came up with it. Suits you better than a fake name." Jackson's hands never left his sides, but all around the cantina John noticed more imbibed nerves leading hands closer to revolvers and rifles.

' _It would be quick. Just long enough to shove my hand down his throat, and then it would be over."_

"Hey the, Mr. Brotherhood Scribe. Leave my bodyguard alone, will ya?" John turned and saw the redhead beeline from the counter to the table, two bottles of whiskey in each hand.

' _That must have cost some serious money,'_ was all his mind could put together. Then she was between them and handed him two of the bottles. Bemused, he took them without protest.

"Miss Cassidy," the Ranger winced behind his shades, and John's opinion of the woman instantly rose a notch. "I wasn't aware you'd hired this… man. However, one man is not enough to clear Cassidy Caravans. The roads aren't safe. And Mr. Doe will be leaving in the morning in any case."

"Then it's lucky I ceded Cassidy Caravans to Alice McLafferty just this morning." The cantina fell silent at that, for one long moment. Then the hubbub exploded to such titanic levels John doubted he could hear his thoughts. "I was gettin' tired of roughin' up your boys anyway, Jackson," she half-shouted above the pandemonium without missing a beat, but the cheerfulness was gone from her words. "No caravan, no blockade. And two guns should have no problem on the road."

Jackson stood silent for a moment and John mirrored him. His hands itched to slap the Ranger some, but the moment had passed, and he found himself more in control of his emotions. Then Jackson nodded, bid them safe travels once more and walked away.

"Ah, showed the Brotherhood Scribe where to stick his 'regulations and blockades'. Pansy." The woman winked at him, then motioned to the door. "Wanna head out? Can't drink with too many eyes on me."

' _I bet.'_ John pushed the thought away. "Why did you do that?" he asked instead, suddenly suspicious.

"'Cause. Jackson stranded me here while some shitstains burned my caravan to ash, that's why." She glared at the Ranger's retreating back. "'Cause I'm drinkin', and I'm an angry, spiteful drunk. And because I  _do_  intend to hire you as a bodyguard."

"Not interested."

She arched an eyebrow, mouth pressing into a thin line. "Don't wanna hear what I have to say first? You kinda owe me for savin' your ass there."

John shrugged, sitting down at the table once more. "There's somewhere I have to go. Can't waste time."

"Like you're doin' right here right now, gettin' robbed by Lacey for colored water and stealin' my booze to recover your virility?"

John scowled, then uncorked one of the two bottles she handed him moments before and brought it to his mouth. He ignored the smirk tugging at the corners of her lips and waited for her to lose interest and the alcohol to kick in.

' _Looks like tonight is disappointment night.'_

After a few more minutes of uncompanionable silence, John sighed in defeat. "Alright. What do you want?"

"I told ya already," she said, then very slowly pointed a finger at him, then at Fritz hanging by the strap from his chair. "You and your gun for a little trek north."

"I-15 is closed. Deathclaws, they say." John suppressed a flinch when exactly who had said that popped up in his mind. She didn't seem to notice though. "And I'm going the other way anyway."

"Then that makes two of us." There was a pause as she mirrored him and drank directly from the bottle. "Ah, this shit's good. Worth every cap. Anyway, I'm not so many cards short of a full deck to go prancin' in deathclaws' hunting grounds. Saw one of the critters once, closer than I cared to, and that's enough for me. There's a fuckin' reason there's death in their name."

John nodded, and in the slight haze finally enveloping his mind, it didn't bother him when he recalled images of deathclaws. Big deathclaws, seen from up close. Some alive, some dead.  _'Dunno what's worse: jaws, horns, tail, claws or that they're fucking bulldozers too fast to be real.'_

She took his silence as encouragement. "So, east it is. On the Nipton Highway, past Little Gomorrah and then up until we reach Vegas Boulevard. My stop is somewhere around there. Four, five days, tops, without trouble."

At that, John snorted in his bottle. It was an ugly sound. "Someone once said trouble tends to follow me."

"And who's that?"

"Someone who hates my guts. Also, the man who named me."

At that, the woman laughed. "Named you? What are you, two?" Her expression darkened. "Or you were, I dunno, a slave or part of some nutjob cult that worships radiation?"

"I wish," he deadpanned, then tapped the side of his head where the hair refused to grow. "Someone shot me in the head. Twice. Lost most of my memories after that."

"Sure, and I'm the almighty Caesar. Try another."

"Ave." A passing caravaneer shot him a filthy look that John matched until the man broke contact first, then he levelled a look at the woman.

"Two shots to the head." He tapped his temple again. "I only woke up a fortnight ago. Doc who patched me up joked I was a John Doe." He shrugged to conceal his discomfort. Why was he saying that again? "It sort of stuck."

The redhead tilted her hat backwards, eyes wide and whistling softly. "Well, I'll be damned. That's some story. You know – well,  _remember_  – who shot ya?"

"I remember a jacket. Checkered white and black. Pretty sleek hair too from what they told me."

"Sounds like a city boy alright. Tacky as hell. Especially the hair," she scoffed. "Nobody with an ounce of sense in their head would waste caps to parade around like some peacock but the Kings and anyone softened by four walls around them all the time. So, you're bound for Vegas? 'Cause we'd be headin' the same way."

John shook his head. "Nope, Novac. Bastard was going there with some of the Khans who ambushed me a few weeks ago. From there, I don't know yet."  _'But everyone seems to think checkered suit hails from Vegas, so I might as well try.'_

The woman pushed ahead, undismayed. "Khans are always bad news, even after Bitter Springs. Still, Novac's on the way to where I need to go."

"Why?" At the woman's puzzled look, John swallowed another gulp and elaborated. "Why me? You said yourself you're free to go anytime, and you have the caps to pay for armed help. Let word pass among the guards who've been here the longest and you'll have a line in less than an hour."

"Soft men, all of them," she scoffed, shaking her head. Then she leaned forward, elbows on the table, but John was quick to lift his eyes from her chest to her face. "I was in this business for a decade before things went south. Walked up and down the whole West Coast a number of times. Shady Sands, Vault City, 'Cisco, the Boneyard and Reno. Even ventured up all the way to New Arroyo, pay my respects to the Iron General. Point is, after a while you learn to tell the fools in love with their own badassery from the real deal, or you better drop out before someone gets the jump on you." At that, her face fell, and she took a long, long swig from her bottle.

When she put it down, it clinked, empty. Her cheeks were blossoming, afire, but she spoke with barely the faintest slur. John felt compelled to empty his own. Reclaim his virility, if he recalled right.

"Now, the good ones go where there's a steady income. Which means Alice fuckin' McLafferty and the Crimson Caravan, the Brahmin Barons, or the big guns from Reno. Sure as hell not to the small fries like me or everyone in this dump."

"There's safety in numbers."  _'Yeah, tell that to Eddie and his gang.'_

Her laugh was bitter. "Please. The more I hire caps upfront, the more are gonna line up to slit my throat while I sleep. Or worse."

The pounding in his head grew worse. Angrier. More insistent. More  _demanding_. John gripped the edge of the table with both hands and closed his eyes. To what use, he didn't know. The darkness only made the memories clearer, more vivid.

The screech of metal brought him back to the present.

He felt the collective weight of every patron in the cantina staring at him. Some were inching away, towards the doors. John glanced at the woman and saw a flicker of fear cross her face before she recollected herself and cleared her throat.

"Uh… you alright, cowboy?"

John looked down at his hands. The right was oozing blood from a cut on his palm, smearing the offending edge of the rusted table.

The left was gripping a chunk of the table, now balled up into his fist. His fingers had left an impression in the metal where they'd pierced the lightweight piece of scrap.

John rose, shouldered Fritz and made his way to the door. Nobody dared to stop him.

* * *

 

"You're persistent," he offered when he heard the crunch of gravel under approaching boots. The lingering smell of alcohol and the clinking of bottles revealed her identity.

' _Whatever her name is.'_

"I'm a Cassidy. Runs in the blood." He caught a glimpse of her leaning against the skeleton of a car. She had put the duster on to ward off the wind, but now John saw her flip her hat backwards and close her eyes as she took a deep breath of the night's air. He could see the necks of two bottles peeking out of the large pockets.

"Why do you insist? I told you no already." He propped himself up on an elbow for the time it took to send her a meaningful glance, then he flattened again on the roof he'd chosen for himself.

"I'm used to the other way 'round, usually," she jibed half-heartedly. "Look cowboy, don't flatter yerself. It's that between you and that rabble, I know you're the less likely to stab me in the back first fuckin' chance you get. Simple as that."

John growled. "And how would you know that? Read my mind?"

"Not yet, but I've good ears under this hat. And the whole Outpost's been talking 'bout you ever since they radioed in the Gangers were done and dealt with."

At that, he stiffened, and the night's chill evaporated. Jackson's moniker echoed in his head, mocking and terrifying. "So, you want the Butcher to watch your back? Hire the bloodthirsty monster?"

Silence stretched between them for a long minute. They were far enough from the outpost that the ruckus from the cantina was barely a buzz just above the white noise, but close enough that the lamps strapped to the statues lapped nearby, keeping them in sight of the checkpoint and the soldiers surveilling the approach.

He was about to call it a night when she spoke again. Her voice was low, maybe a tad hesitant, but he felt her eyes burn into the side of his head.

"I heard the rest of the story too. About your girlfriend, the one the Gangers killed." John lurched to a sitting position, glaring at her, but she held his gaze, unapologetic. "I think I know why you did what you did. They say it was brutal, but who am I to judge? At least you made them pay. I tried to drink myself into a stupor."

Another pause, more poignant. John turned the word around in his head, girlfriend. He felt disgust well up into him.  _'No. She was a victim. And I the executioner. The Butcher. Yes, I suppose he was right. It's fitting.'_

"That's the man I want to watch my back. For a hefty sum, 'course. And a bonus, if we stumble upon somethin' fishy and underhanded."

John brought a hand to his belt and drew the custom N99. The shotgun was in her hands in a flash, but John just held the gun against the light, studying the side of the barrel and the crude, thin letters he carved into it with the tip of his combat knife.

Sunny.

' _The Gangers are dead. I killed them all. Now there's only Victor left, and the checkered bastard. And I'll need the caps to travel.'_

He exhaled, then straightened and slid off the car, picking up his duster and shaking it. "How much are we talking about?"

There. The Cheshire grin. She lowered the gun. "The standard for a good one? Five hundred, plus expenses." John's brow shot up, but her grin only widened. "You, however, fucked with the Caravan Code. And I've brought the alcohol. So here's the deal.

You drink me under the table, I cover your tab and add whatever sum Jackson kept from you for the Ganger business."

John considered how little the alcohol seemed to affect him, and a small, tremulous smile found its way to his lips so fast it could have been mistaken for a grimace in the dark. "And if you win?"

"You agree to work for me for half the fee. Expenses not included." Her hand shot out between them. John waited a moment, then shook it.

"Deal."

Her smiled turned sardonic, and she produced two glasses from her duster. "No backin' off when you wake up with the worst hangover of your life."

* * *

 

He was back in the cave, back elbow deep into another's man gut. He could feel the body heat tingling his fingers, but wherever he looked, he was met with a wall of inscrutable darkness. But he knew he was in the cave. How? He didn't want to know the answer to that.

Whispers, lights flashing. He tried to move his limbs, but only one arm answered, without heeding his commands. The blare of a siren followed, then running along badly lit corridors, all identical, screens and voices trailing his every step, throwing horrors at him.

Then the world spun and whirred and he found himself in an office, a spacious office that must have belonged to someone of authority sometime in the past. The walls and ceiling were painted with blood, red and slick and dripping.

_Clik – clik – clik_. Every step, his boots squelched on guts and snapped bones underneath. All around, bodies lay sprawled, the blue of their clothes soaked with crimson, hacked and burned, arms ripped from their sockets.

A single figure sat slouched behind a broken desk, his head turned around one-hundred and eighty degrees. John reached up to touch him, and the head started turning around, bones creaking and ligaments snapping.

Sunny smiled up at him.  _"You've done enough. Let me handle it."_

Darkness. Then the nothingness that was his world rocked on its hinges as if someone had closed it in a box and started to shake it around. Sensation crept in – that is, the sensation of no sensation. Then awareness hit, and John – was that his name? – John wished he was dead.

"Rise and shine, sleepin' beauty. Jackson's rallyin' the pitchforks."

Each word was a railway spike shot into a cluster of nerves, flaring up different parts of his brain until everything was a fiery, white hot inferno. John tried to speak, but his lips were glued shut and cracked, and his throat was on the bad end of an angry behemoth with a passion for chokeholds. He pried one eye open, but the indistinct whitenessglaring back made him wish for the mercy of another couple shots to the head. With a shotgun, this time.

Other senses made themselves known, albeit scarcely. His mouth stung with leftover puke left to ferment in the pocket of his cheek for God knew how long. Some had trickled out of the corner of his mouth and pooled around his face, sticking it to something grimy. Then his attempts at breathing met partial success, the glob obliterating his sinuses shot down his throat and John found himself choking  _and_ warding off another wave of nausea at the same time.

"Out!" someone shouted, and John's brain wept. "I've just finished scrubbing this place clean! Out!"

"Fine, fine. Don't twist your panties into a knot." A moment's pause. "Hey, you! Yes, you. Grab him from the other side. Fucker weighs a ton!"

Then he was drifting, weightless, his only thought the two masses warring inside his gullet for right of passage. It all flew out of his mind when he hit the ground – or was it the sky? – hard, gravel scraping at his hand and knees and face, and the stalemate was broken.

"Trust a soldier – Sonofabitch!"

With one last, mighty push, nausea won over mucus and a hectoliter of puke shot out of John's mouth with the strength of a geyser. More curses were drowned out as John's lapsing attention was monopolized by the sickening feeling of liquids rushing up his gullet, stretching it almost beyond capacity. The pungent scent of bile and whiskey mixed and stabbed his brain, again and again, and the moment he thought he was done he was doubling over again.

Then it was over. After the spasms and dry retching abated, what remained of him felt as weak as a kitten. John's eyes managed a one-second peek that failed to encompass the sheer size of the mess on the ground, but what higher mental functions survived the onslaught told him, in no uncertain terms, that his artificial arm and another hand on his right shoulder were all that stood between him and a face-first dive.

"Well, this settles it," the voice the hand belonged to pronounced. "You're one awful drunk."

John could only grunt in agreement.

* * *

 

A vile concoction – Fixer and cazadores' antivenom mixed in a glass of brahmin milk that made John's insides wish for oblivion – a tour to the bathroom and another one with a mop at the scene of the crime later, John felt only slightly worse than the first time he woke up.

"You up to it?" the redhead – his employer – Cassidy asked, gaze roaming over the wide expanse that was the southern Mojave. John forwent scowling at her. Guzzling down the sheer volume of alcohol this woman had the night prior – up to the point where John's memories degraded to mush at least – with nary a consequence a dose of 'hangover brew' couldn't fix ought to be illegal. Somehwere.

"Yeah," he grunted, narrowing his eyes at the Nipton Highway. The baking Mojave heat reflected off the asphalt, boiling him into his leathers even that early in the morning. John dreaded the coming of midday. "Been through worse. Shot to the head, remember?"

"Well, that's reassurin'. Now, a coupla rules." She turned to him, face blank. "Since I handed ya your ass yesterday, by the authority of the Code, you're my bitch."

John arched an eyebrow, shock rising and receding in the span of a few seconds. They stared at each other for a long minute, then she huffed. "Anyone ever told ya you're no fun?"

"Not that I remember."

"… Touchè." She looked away, then turned around for a second attempt. "So, ground rules. Take all of your maiden-need-protection notions and toss 'em out of the window." She tapped the butt of her shotgun meaningfully. "This baby is not for show, alright? I hired you for when things get airy."

"Also, I hired you all the way to my caravan. Which means, north of Novac." John frowned, a protest on his lips, but Cassidy had the advantage of momentum. "Wait, lemme finish. I've no issue with taking a day off the schedule to snoop around for the fucker that shot you. But any longer than that, and we're bound north. Caravan's probably a cazadores' nest already, and I need to check on things before only ash remains. Alright with that?"

John was about to say that no, he wasn't fine with that.  _'But how long will I need to check on things anyway? Checkered suit is one picturesque bastard, no way he passed by unnoticed. One day is plenty of time.'_

John sighed, wincing at the strain on his back that simple movement caused him, then nodded. "Fine by me. Now we'd better get moving. We're wasting daylight."

"Wait." John turned, and found her outstretched hand waiting for him. "My Ma taught me manners. I'm Cass."

"John Doe, but you already know that." It took a moment for his mind to parse what she said. "Only Cass?"

She sighed, rolling her eyes. "I suppose not. Full name's Rose of Sharon Cassidy." She shot him a filthy look that promised ugly things to come. "My pops was fond of cheap pre-war books. And that's the last we're speaking of it."

They walked in silence along the side of the highway to avoid being cooked in their boots by the smoldering asphalt. John found that movement improved his general state of dereliction, but avoided mulling too much over the absurdly quick pace his body seemed to recover in general. Multiple headshots, a flamethrower to the face, now enough whiskey to fell an horse but apparently barely sway Cassidy… searching his memories and finding only blanks hurt, he found, especially when his brain was in the aftermath of a night as a booze sponge, fast healing or not.

Cassidy's talkativeness of the night before was gone though. The few times he stole a glance at her, she seemed deep in thought, the only sounds to leave her mouth wordless murmurs that got lost in the wind. Not wishing to intrude, he looked around, but there was little in the way of remarkable sights. Desert to the left, desert to the right, and further off in the distance mountain ranges as far as the eyes could wander.

John didn't make the mistake to underestimate the wasteland again, not after the close call with the radscorpions two nights before. The wind buffeted Nipton Highway from the north and wesr, a residue of the storm that hit Primm he supposed, and clouds of dirt rolled around the desert. The sunlight filtered through the particles just so it made it strenuous to peer inside too long.

If John was a raider or planning an ambush, that's the path he would choose to close the distance. But nothing emerged for all his staring to break the settling boredom, and he didn't know whether to be relieved or annoyed.

After a while, she broke the silence.

"Road's awfully empty today."

John eyed her. "You find that strange with all those caravans stranded at the outpost?"

Cassidy looked over her shoulder and shook her head. "Kinda. Jackson kept the caravans from crossin' into the Mojave, not the other way 'round. With the I-15 closed, all the caravans from Vegas oughta take the highway to reach the Outpost and cross into California."

"It's fairly early. The next town, Nipton, is still hours away. Might be we still have to cross the early risers."

"Could be," she hummed. "And Little Gomorrah sure has its fancy ways to keep visitors hooked. Still, business waits for no one. The ones in a hurry or broke usually camp outside the city for an early start."

"What's with the name?" Cassidy shot him an odd look. "Little Gomorrah. That doesn't sound promising."

"Depends what you're after," she shrugged, but her lips curled in distaste. "If it's cheap whores and cheaper booze 'cause you can't afford Vegas, then Nipton's the place for ya. Town's a shit-hole, but you wouldn't believe the caps that exchange hands there."

"I thought you were all for the booze, actually."

"Yep, that's me, right?" she agreed, tipping the rim of her hat, "But I'd rather not be stared at like a chunk of meat at a starving cannibal's feast. And like its namesake, Nipton assumes if you don't have a cock, you're for sale."

John nodded at that, at a loss for words, and silence relapsed between them for the next couple of hours. It was broken only by the growling of his stomach, roaring like a charging yao-guai. Cassidy chuckled.

"You could've said it, you know, instead of scaring everything within one mile."

"It's nothing," John said, repressing the pull of hunger. God, he was starving. And then he remembered. Carried by the events, he hadn't touched food since the night Sunny went missing. "And besides, I'd like to sit down and cook something. I don't think I'd take well to K-rations right now."

"The military stuff?" Cassidy's face scrunched up in disgust. "Hell, no thank you. You know how to cook?"

John shrugged, tossing the ball back at her. "Haven't the foggiest beyond grilled gecko. You?"

"Why should I? Because I'm a woman?" John sighed and she punched him in the shoulder. The left one. He stopped as Cass flinched in pain and surprise. Then she broke into a cussing fit and cradled her hand close to her chest.

"Damn man, what the hell are you made of? It's like punching a slab of steel."

"I'll take that as a compliment," he replied flatly. She glared. "Look, my left arm? It's actually a prosthesis of some kind. And no, I haven't the faintest about what, how or why."  _'Something else to heap at your door, you checkered fuck'_

Cass stared at him, mouth slightly gaping. Looking closer, her mouth snapped shut and she frowned. "You're sayin' all those rumors, they had it right? Bullshit. You're havin' me on, cowboy. It looks exactly like the other. What do you have under that duster, some kind of power armor?"

One halfway stripping later, John adjusted the straps to his pack around his shoulders again as he waited for the final verdict.

"That's… that's some serious shit you got there!" she exhaled violently after she regained control of her jaw, her mouth working a mile a minute. "I mean, sure, everyone and their mom knows 'bout those cyborgs the Brotherhood threw at the NCR at Lost Hills, but who has ever seen one? Closest thing I know was some egghead who stuck a Mr. Gutsy's arm into a poor sod's socket and paraded him around Gecko for a-while, but this? Damn, those Brotherhood flunkies would sell their armor for a chance at ya."

"Take a breath before you run out of oxygen. And I'm no cyborg, it's just the arm." John thought for a moment, eyes losing focus as he picked his brain for what he remembered of his talks with Doc Mitchell on the history of the Mojave. "I was told the Brotherhood had a presence here. A chapter, I think they call it. But that was before the NCR smashed 'em at Helios One. Pretty much disappeared after that, if I'm not mistaken."

"Dunno. Some ought to have escaped, so there might be a few still around this far east of Lost Hills. But that," she tapped John's left arm, and the fake-skin budged under her touch. "that looks so real none'd give it a second look. Unless you punch through another table right under a Scribe's nose, that is."

"Yeah, I might want to avoid that. Thanks for the tip." Suddenly uncomfortable, John looked away, letting his eyes wander over Lake Ivanpah's dry, cracked bed. "Any place nearby to stop for a bite?"

She rolled her eyes and turned to point at the road. "What do ya think? This ain't the Hub. No rest stops this far south of Novac, but there's an abandoned station maybe an hour from here." Under the hat, her expression turned wistful. "Used to camp there when the Outpost was too cramped."

"Sounds good enough to me." John shifted under his duster and turned to set off again. Even his limited experience at reading people told him she had a lot on her plate, but he didn't want to pry. With his history at consoling people – no, he wasn't going down that road right now.

Then he felt her eyes on him, grey dots studying him from under a furrowed brow. "What?"

"You got any other secrets I should know, cowboy? Besides the fancy arm and the vengeful streak, that is."

' _I took a blast from a flamethrower straight to the face and walked away none the worse from it half-a-day later.'_ "Nothing I can think of, no."

"Well, alright," she shrugged, a bit disappointed. Then she smiled at him, a thin thing. "Thanks for the vow of confidence. I appreciate it."

John spent the next hour puzzling over the irony of her words.


End file.
